There is a thing; a sense
Of fitness, shall we say?
That makes of tragedy
A beauteous thing, and sweet love,
Joy, prosaic; sometimes
Almost sordid in their mediocrity!

I could not tell you now
What I saw that day at
The Cloisters, but I did see
A green lizard... and in my
Mind's eye, fragments of a
Printed page.

Oh, my beloved, I know
Such thoughts are pure insanity,
And yet I cannot help
But wonder... would you have come
To see me in my prison
E'er the sun rose?

And after that I thought
Of it no more... and flinging
On my coat, I left.
The "awful jewels" upon
My person still, as I had done
So many centuries before.