III

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

      And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

      Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Aye, in the very temple of Delight

      Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

            Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

      Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

            And be among her cloudy trophies hung.