Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, <br />Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, <br />And thro' the clefts, itself has made, <br />We spy the flashes of the Blade ! <br /> <br />But thro' the clefts, itself has made, <br />We likewise see Love's flashing blade, <br />By rust consumed or snapt in twain : <br />And only Hilt and Stump remain.<br /><br />Samuel Taylor Coleridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-36/
