Love not as do the flesh-imprisoned men Whose dreams are of a bitter bought caress, Or even of a maiden's tenderness Whom they love only that she loves again. For it is but thyself thou lovest then, Or what thy thoughts would glory to possess; But love thou nothing thou wouldst love the less If henceforth ever hidden from thy ken. Love but the formless and eternal Whole From whose effulgence one unheeded ray Breaks on this prism of dissolving clay Into the flickering colours of thy soul. These flash and vanish; bid them not to stay, For wisdom brightens as they fade away.