And I confess Christ counted less to us than tales of leash and gess,
Or Hárún-el-Rashíd's largesse that sent the clock to Charlemagne.
We practised sums, and tried to train our cavalry in loss and gain.
Upon the misty wizard-world rose like a star the money-brain.
Even monks planned theft of saintly scalps; stray hairs and chips of nail and chine,
Divinely shielded through the Alps, would make the fortune of the Rhine.
I often tried to hide myself from this besetting spook of pelf.
In olive-groves I called in vain to simple faun and acorn-elf.
I pictured kine that kissed their own reflections on the impulsive Rhone,
A little maid with sunflower hair, a nest we found ... the birds had flown.