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Rh Joy only masketh the wan face of woe. For not alone here fever's mortal breath Chills all exultant ardours of the brave; Slackens bent bows of young impetuous lives, Baffling the swift-wing'd arrows of their aim; Veils youthful eyes in languorous impotence, So that they love no more fair life than death. But there is worse than treacherous-soul'd Miasma, Lurking for prey, close-mask'd in orient glory, Enveloping a man with subtle folds Of dull impalpable mortality. Sin is a deadlier malady than all! These flowers are only strewn upon a corpse. Man has made Earth a hissing and a scorn Among the constellated worlds of light! And here the plague-spot is the loathliest.

I have come to pleasant places on my way: Angels beholding might be lured from heaven! And in the course of my long wandering I have return'd once more to visit them.