Chapter LIII: The Revolt

Not so, my Soul? Rather for thee the fate Of those hieratic Carthaginian queens Who needs must vanish through the gods' own gate, Even holy Flame, with music and great threnes Idolatrous, as on soft gorgeous wings, If Time's least kiss had subtly disallowed Their beauty's sacred unisons?--Fair things Desire their revel-raiment be their shroud. Yet, fierce insurgent, cease vain wars to wage! Art thou so pure as to decline, forsooth, These penitential usages of age That expiate proud cruelties of youth, And bring thee to the last and perfect art, To love the lovely with a selfless heart?