Nor strange it is, to us who walk in bonds Of flesh and time, if virtue's self awhile Gleam dull like sunless ice; whilst graceful guile-- Blood-flecked like hamatite or diamonds With a red inward spark--to reconcile Beauty and evil seems and corresponds So well with good that the mind joys to have Full wider jet and scope: nor swings and sleeps Forever in one cradle wearily Like those vast weeds that off d'Acunha's isle Wash with the surf and flap their mighty fronds Mournfully to the dipping of the wave, Yet cannot be disrupted from their deeps By the whole heave and settle of the sea. |