The Hours of Fiammetta

to barbarian orisons
Of dull hearth-loving hearts, mistaking me:

Yet from mine incense ye shall not divorce
Remembrance. Fools, these recantations be

Ardours that prove you still idolators;
And, though ye hurry through the circling hells

Of bright ambition like hopes and energies,
That haste bewrays you. My great doctrine dwells

Immortal in those fevered heresies,
And all the inversions of my rites proclaim
The mournful memory of mine altar-flame."

XIV

DREAM-GHOSTS

White house of night, too much the ghosts come through

Your crazy doors, to vex and startle me,
Touching with curious fingers cold as dew

Kissing with unloved kisses fierily
That dwell, slow fever, through my veins all day,

And fill my senses as the dead their graves.
They are builded in my castles and bridges? Yea,

Not therefore must my dreams become their slaves.
If once we passed some kindness, mu