Song (Coleridge)

Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, And thro' the clefts, itself has made, We spy the flashes of the Blade !

But thro' the clefts, itself has made, We likewise see Love's flashing blade, By rust consumed or snapt in twain : And only Hilt and Stump remain.