While temples fall, and empires fade,    Immaculately pure: Exchange this endless life of art    For beauty that must die, And blossom with a beating heart,    Into mortality! […] Pure and bright, a fountain flowing    From the hoof-marks in the sod. […] Alas, ’twas not the white-horn’d doe    He saw in the rustling grove, But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,    Of his own young wedded love.