Shape sweet words in a garland to circle my brows
Or make a jewel of speech to be worn in my bosom.
"Out of soft rain of tears and glamour of joy
Iris-arcs though you weave for your heart's-delight,
Bring me no luminous dream of the saffron and gold,
Bring me no dews of the emerald flame of the grass,
Bring me no vanishing fires of the poppy and rose,
No melting mirage of heavenly hyacinth light,
For I take nothing of colour of those who are mine.
"I it is colour my chosen ones, never they me,