Under the Surface

Ay, smile as you will, with your saintly face! 
But I know the line 
Of your guard is as weak as a maze of lace: 
You may give no sign— 
And the devil is never far to seek, 
And a rotten peach has a lovely cheek. 

As they come in the stream, I say to you: 
The lives we jostle are none of them true. 
Who seeks with a lamp and glass may find 
A nature of honor from core to rind; 
But woe to the heart that is formed so true: 
It may not reck, and it still must rue 
The perjured lip and the bleeding vow. 
God keep it blind to the things we know— 
To the ghastly scars for the leech’s eyes 
And the occult lore of the worldly wise.