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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536405" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: VIII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536405" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">It was a booth no larger than the rest,<br>No loftier fashioned and no more sublime,<br>As poor a shrine as ever youth possessed<br>In which to worship truth revealed in time.<br>Yet to my soul the mean remembrance clings<br>With all the folly of that far fair eve,<br>And my pulse throbs with lost imaginings,<br>And passion rises from its grave to grieve.<br>Vain dreams, brute images! and over all<br>The shrill--voiced dwarf its hierarch and priest,<br>Vaunting its praise, a pagan prince of Baal.<br>It scared me as of some wild idol feast.<br>``The Booth of Beauty,'' thus it was I read,<br>Blazoned in scarlet letters overhead.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a></strong></div>

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