In The Deeps Of Beauty's Purple Clouds Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Soft and temperate as the night
That gentle, glowing face with eyes
That dims to me the moonlit skies
That shadowed rose of uncurling joy
That soothes the dew's white honey
That makes the lotus take up wings.
With nymph and angel, lustrous gilt things
Why love should age a wilting flower
A wilting flame; in damnation's name
Why is it love's temperate love of ages?
Why is it so sweetly rancid, drawn into rages?
So sweetly web-cradled within its turbid cages