His love was Passion's essence—as a tree

On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame

Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be

Thus, and enamoured, were in him the same.[js]

But his was not the love of living dame,

Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams,

But of ideal Beauty, which became

In him existence, and o'erflowing teems

Along his burning page, distempered though it seems.