I HAVE the moon to supper, the most grave Genii of Dreams attend my breakfasting; And at her gradual approach the Spring, Bangled and blossomed, bows a naked slave. The song of larks, the passion of the brave, The hill-crest and the silence, the slow swing Of ibises that call upon the wing, Christ and my visions, all these I may have. All these, but never priceless Elzevirs, Dark Indian bowls, blue rugs from Khorassan, Or Rembrandts of the latent ruby-fire In homely halls that spurn the wrathful years: Life is so full of pleasures life must ban, Pleasures it is most useless to desire. |