Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, 
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, 
And thro' the clefts, itself has made, 
We spy the flashes of the Blade ! 
But thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain :
And only Hilt and Stump remain.