Deep-Hearted Roses Of The Purple Dusk And Lilies Of The Morn; And Cactus, Holding Up A Slender Tusk Of Fragrance On A Thorn; All Heavy Flowers, Sultry With Their Musk, Her Presence Puts To Scorn. For She Is Like The Pale, Pale Snowdrop There, Scentless And Chaste Of Heart; The Moonflower, Making Spiritual The Air, Like Some Pure Work Of Art; Divine And Holy, Exquisitely Fair, And Virtue'S Counterpart. Yet When Her Eyes Gaze Into Mine, And When Her Lips To Mine Are Pressed,-- Why Are My Veins All Fire Then? And Then Why Should Her Soul Suggest Voluptuous Perfumes, Maddening Unto Men, And Prurient With Unrest?