What wide savannas of your thought I tread, Within what geysers of your wit I leap, Upon what cumulus of pity bed And down what stream of music float to sleep, Not Beatrice's lover, no, nor he Who sang the strange dark lady into fame, Nor yet the passionate tenth muse, not she, Shadow or echo of these gifts could name. And I who stumble even when I sing Far less pulsation of my heart than throbs In contemplation of the wealth you bring, Shall I not fall before a wind that robs The boughs of all October and then pours Their purple, gold and crimson round my doors? |