Sonnet CCLXXXVII:
When distance severs us, and we become
As parting voyagers of divided lives,
In whom no common interest survives,
A brief salute and long farewell our doom;
I wonder, Sweet, if use will not consume
Thy high ideal, and the life that thrives
On trifles will not garner to its hives
Even thy love, as bees make food from bloom.
O, I beseech thee, save that sacred thing
From earthly uses—from the huckstering rage
That wires the lightning to the shilling’s ring!
Live by inspirings shut against this age
Of peddled matter! Hear the angels sing!
See God’s own finger turn the ancient page!
