Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, br Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, br And thro' the clefts, itself has made, br We spy the flashes of the Blade ! br br But thro' the clefts, itself has made, br We likewise see Love's flashing blade, br By rust consumed or snapt in twain : br And only Hilt and Stump remain.