THERE was no Borgia venom; Gandia fell Under no sword of Caesar's; doubtless, so. And our cool judgements are content to know That such a marriage group of heaven and hell Was never throned within the Italian sell, Nor evil brimmed to such an overflow. But our magnificent dreams around the glow Of infinite wickedness compass still, where dwell Pomps of our own undared impossible sin, Tumultuously potent, marvellously beautiful; Where, in a superhuman mystery Of Christ and Lucifer, bearing those dire three, The Pope and the Pope's children, ramps within The fields of Christendom a Borgian bull. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 88. A DAY IN SUSSEX by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ECHOES: 6 by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY ECHO [OR, ECHOES] by THOMAS MOORE NEURASTENIA by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON CRUCIFIXION TO THE WORLD BY THE CROSS OF CHRIST by ISAAC WATTS BUILDING BLOCKS by VIRGINIA A. ALLIN |