Classic Poem

The spider Spleen, that slowly and subtly weaves,
Its odious web upon my golden thought,
Left no foul hint forgotten or unsought
To taint a swerving soul that doubts and grieves.

My faith, once strong, is now like withered leaves
In the chill vortex of a tempest caught,
And, by the artful world's vile lessons taught,
I know that smiling chastity deceives.

There is no purity on earth, I cried;
Gold of a virgin can a plaything make;
There lives no stainless thing save burning fire!
While the pure snow upon the lowlands wide,
God's silent answer, fluttered as I spake,
But nothing proved, the sun will make it mire.