What shall we do for Love these days? 
How shall we make an altar-blaze
To smite the horny eyes of men
With the renown of our Heaven,
And to the unbelievers prove
Our service to our dear god, Love? 
What torches shall we lift above
The crowd that pushes through the mire,
To amaze the dark heads with strange fire? 
I should think I were much to blame,
If never I held some fragrant flame
Above the noises of the world,
And openly ’mid men’s hurrying stares,
Worshipt before the sacred fears
That are like flashing curtains furl’d
Across the presence of our lord Love. 
Nay, would that I could fill the gaze
Of the whole earth with some great praise
Made in a marvel for men’s eyes,
Some tower of glittering masonries,
Therein such a spirit flourishing
Men should see what my heart can sing: 
All that Love hath done to me
Built into stone, a visible glee;
Marble carried to gleaming height
As moved aloft by inward delight;
Not as with toil of chisels hewn,
But seeming poised in a mighty tune. 
For of all those who have been known
To lodge with our kind host, the sun,
I envy one for just one thing: 
In Cordova of the Moors
There dwelt a passion-minded King,
Who set great bands of marble-hewers
To fashion his heart’s thanksgiving
In a tall palace, shapen so
All the wondering world might know
The joy he had of his Moorish lass. 
His love, that brighter and larger was
Than the starry places, into firm stone
He sent, as if the stone were glass
Fired and into beauty blown. 
  Solemn and invented gravely
In its bulk the fabric stood,
Even as Love, that trusteth bravely
In its own exceeding good
To be better than the waste
Of time’s devices; grandly spaced,
Seriously the fabric stood. 
But over it all a pleasure went
Of carven delicate ornament,
Wreathing up like ravishment,
Mentioning in sculptures twined
The blitheness Love hath in his mind;
And like delighted senses were
The windows, and the columns there
Made the following sight to ache
As the heart that did them make. 
Well I can see that shining song
Flowering there, the upward throng
Of porches, pillars and windowed walls,
Spires like piercing panpipe calls,
Up to the roof’s snow-cloud flight;
All glancing in the Spanish light
White as water of arctic tides,
Save an amber dazzle on sunny sides. 
You had said, the radiant sheen
Of that palace might have been
A young god’s fantasy, ere he came
His serious worlds and suns to frame;
Such an immortal passion
Quiver’d among the slim hewn stone. 
And in the nights it seemed a jar
Cut in the substance of a star,
Wherein a wine, that will be poured
Some time for feasting Heaven, was stored. 
  But within this fretted shell,
The wonder of Love made visible,
The King a private gentle mood