Classic Poem

My troubled bosom shall be cinct with pride,
Girdled with red asterias. Is it sin
If I have cast lover and friend aside,
Scorning them as myself who cannot win
The strengths of beauty, the heavenly altitudes?--
O sad and sacred Spirit of Disdain,
What penances upon thine ivory roods
Within the burning Castles of thy pain!--
Thy mystic will no motion ever knew
Outwith the splendid danger of extremes;
Thy sorrowful refusals pass thee through
The great concentrics of star-builded dreams,
Unto the crypt of absolute ecstasy,
To God or Nothing--where thine heart would be.