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.