Love, at the highest, asks for no reward, For perfect Love rejects all recompense; So that of his own fires he may keep guard, To fuller vantage makes he no pretence,— His altars breathe of myrrh and frankincense,— Fill'd with the joy of such high sacrifice, He swings his burning thurible of spice. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |