Two graceful portals led to Sappho's bower;
Two fitly graceful portals. By the one,
A winning group, the Syren Senses stood,
Chanting their sweet temptation; while the other
Was fondly guarded by the Muses nine.
Love chose, for so it seemed, the wiselier part,
And prayed the gentle Muses. But, no sooner,
In bland compliance with that prudent prayer,
Were the valves opened, than those wayward Senses
Fled their own gate, and thrust them in with him;
Proud of the freak—a gay, tumultuous throng.
Then first He found that 'twas delusion—All;—
Must such delusions hold him evermore?—
Those separate groups—his own fantastic dream;
And that the double gates—in sooth—were One.
