I've read no line of Wordsworth whom the steven Of Byron hath assailed with bitterest gall, Save this I came upon, a fragment small In a romance pseudonymously given, From Apuleius filched, "Louisa,"—leaven Of thought impure and pictures passional. How well the flash of beauty I recall, The "Spires whose silent finger points to heaven!" A white dove's feather down the darkness strayed, A lovely flower abloom in some foul nook. And now when riming halts and fancy tires, And Prospero is of Ariel unobeyed, I over all the margin of my book Trace group on group of heavenward-pointing spires.
Translation by Agnes Lee. This poem is in the public domain.