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44 I built an unnamed altar in my heart, And sculptured sacred garlands for a frieze From delicately petalled memories,— The fragrance of a word, the fragile art Of ash-gold hair, dim visioned things that start With radiant wings from mist of reveries, And vanish at the telling as a breeze Blurs mirrored stars in dark pools set apart.

But, as I worshipped reverently there The symbols of the beautiful, there came A light aslant the shadows of my prayer That silenced mine uplifted lips with shame. The garlands coldly carven in that fair Unmeaning tracery enscrolled—thy name.