CONFESSIONS

 

No angels softly spin this song

Except to beautify a verse

Or grant a wing of magic to its theme.

 

No censers gently swing this way

Except where thought is lulled to sleep

Upon a bed of perfumed smoke.

 

No sermon fires these pensive words

Except when indignation's roused

By moth-worn thought's effective fuse.

 

No sins are boasted on this page

Except where Art is better served

By proud confessions in its name.

 

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