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My
Lattice and Other Poems
by
Frederick George Scott
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IDOLS
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IN each
man’s heart a secret temple stands
For rites idolatrous of
praise and prayer;
And dusky idols through
the incensed air,
On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,
Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s
hands,—
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Some
richly carved, with face of beauty rare,
Some with brute heads and
bosoms foul and bare,
Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.
Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,
The silent stair-way to
thy secret shrine,
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And
see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelf
With front aggressive, served through hopes and
fears
In ceaseless cult by love
that counts divine
His
every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
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