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.
