On Reading Certain Letters

Reading these lines, this record of lost days 
Where I am not, and yet where love has been, 
This tale of passions consecrate to men 
Other than me, unwitting of my ways, 
I seem to hear some pagan chaunt of praise 
Hymned to an idol shrine in gardens green, 
Some wild soft worship of a god obscene, 
Some idle homage to an idol face. 
I shut my ears, yet hear it still. My eyes 
See not, yet see the unchaste, the unlawful fire; 
I scent the odour of the sacrifice, 
And feel the victim’s shriek. Then in my ire 
I rise up, as on Horeb, and I cry, 
“There is none other god, but only I!”