Passion Flowers (Watson)/The Iconoclast
The Iconoclast.
Within the shadowed temple of my heart,
Embalmed in fragrance of the roses dead—
That bloomed erstwhile in Life's glad Pleasurance—
Lies low upon its chill and narrow bed
The Thing I loved, enshrouded, passionless and still.
Is it a lesser crime, in careless scorn,
As thou hast done, to kill my dearest, best—
The Thing of Spirit and of Aspiration born—
Less than hadst thou sheathed Damascan blade
In flesh and blood and thus hadst taken life?
Alas! alas! my Ideal, pure and fair,
Thou 'st murdered in a harsh, unhallowed strife;
For all my prayers it may not breathe again,
And on thy soul there rests the guilt of Cain.
Embalmed in fragrance of the roses dead—
That bloomed erstwhile in Life's glad Pleasurance—
Lies low upon its chill and narrow bed
The Thing I loved, enshrouded, passionless and still.
Is it a lesser crime, in careless scorn,
As thou hast done, to kill my dearest, best—
The Thing of Spirit and of Aspiration born—
Less than hadst thou sheathed Damascan blade
In flesh and blood and thus hadst taken life?
Alas! alas! my Ideal, pure and fair,
Thou 'st murdered in a harsh, unhallowed strife;
For all my prayers it may not breathe again,
And on thy soul there rests the guilt of Cain.