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.