And I too dream d, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. And order d words asunder fly. The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains, Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. To spirits folded in the womb.
Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn.
Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall. Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm d with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather d in a ring.