Or the South’s ruddy sunlight is prisoned in wine;
To no gardens enchanted where nightingales sing,
And the flowers of all climes breathe perpetual spring:
To none of all these
They give access, my keys,
My magical ebon and ivory keys.
II.
But to temples sublime, where music is prayer,
To the bower of a goddess supernally fair;
To the crypts where the ages their mysteries keep,