Sonnet

The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain,

Down an ideal stream they ever float,

And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,

Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain

Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe

The understream. The wise, could he behold

Cathedralled caverns of thickribbéd gold

And branching silvers of the central globe,

Would marvel from so beautiful a sight

How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow:

But Hatred in a gold cave sits below;

Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light

Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips,

And skins the colour from her trembling lips.