Chapter XVIII: The Doubt

I am pure, because of great illuminations Of dreamy doctrine caught from poets of old, Because of delicate imaginations, Because I am proud, or subtle, or merely cold. Natheless my soul's bright passions interchange As the red flames in opal drowse and speak: In beautiful twilight paths the elusive strange Phantoms of personality I seek. If better than the last embraces I Love the lit riddles of the eyes, the faint Appeal of merely courteous fingers,--why, Though 'tis a quest of souls, and I acquaint My heart with spiritual vanities,-- Is there indeed no bridge twixt me and these?