Before each lucid pannel fuming stood

A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,

Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,

Whose slender feet wide-swerv'd upon the soft

Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke

From fifty censers their light voyage took

To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose

Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous.

(Editor：love)