ON READING CERTAIN LETTERS <br />Reading these lines, this record of lost days <br />Where I am not, and yet where love has been, <br />This tale of passions consecrate to men <br />Other than me, unwitting of my ways, <br />I seem to hear some pagan chaunt of praise <br />Hymned to an idol shrine in gardens green, <br />Some wild soft worship of a god obscene, <br />Some idle homage to an idol face. <br />I shut my ears, yet hear it still. My eyes <br />See not, yet see the unchaste the unlawful fire; <br />I scent the odour of the sacrifice, <br />And feel the victim's shriek. Then in my ire <br />I rise up, as on Horeb, and I cry, <br />``There is none other god, but only I!''<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-love-sonnets-of-proteus-part-i-to-manon-xii/
