|
|
| Shall I compose an elegy on thy death,
Or a sanguine lyric from mine tulip’s cud, Milord --- may fall like mild dew on wreath Of the claret buds to nip in the bud; The love, the sweetest love of a crown-prince! The greatest king, ah, killed the fated calf! Shall I compose an elegy, when I mince – And cut the ‘feet’ in syllables, one and half, Two hundred beads the hermit tells and takes The chaplet of his rosary in his hand: A tragedy of the weaker-vessel make The epilogue, the moon-lit night, the sand; On shivering throne of marble sits the kings, Milord – and ‘all’s well that ends well’ doth sing. |