Sonnet CCXIX:
If beauty is not an immortal thing,
And that fair casket, thy transcendent form,
Never again to throbbing life shall warm,
After thy spirit takes reluctant wing;
Then to the winds the creeds of men I fling,
And like an atheist, I shall turn and storm
At what confounds thee with the baser swarm;
For I have felt irreverent Death’s worst sting.
I ask no future, no dull length of days,
Dragged out in sorrow for the world I left,
Filled with repinings or with thankless praise.
O Mother Church, to thee my eyes I raise,
By scornful Nature humbled and bereft!
What is it Paul, thy mightiest teacher, saith?
