And over this piano bent
A Form, from some pure region sent.
Her dusky tresses lustrous shone,
In massy clusters, like your own;
And, as her fingers pressed the keys,
How strangely they resembled these.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn’d my Castle in the Air;
And Life, without the least foundation,
Became a charming occupation.
We viewed, with much serene disdain,
The smoke and scandal of Cockaigne,
Its dupes and dancers, knaves and nuns,
Possess’d by blues, or bored by duns.
With souls released from earthly tether,
We gazed upon the moon together.
Our sympathy, from night to noon,
Rose crescent with that crescent moon,
We lived and loved in cloudless climes,
And died (in rhymes) a thousand times.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair,
Adorn’d my Castle in the Air,
Now, tell me, could you dwell content
In such a baseless tenement?
Or could so delicate a flower
Exist in such a breezy bower?
Because, if you would settle in it,
’Twere built, for love, in half a minute.
What’s love? you ask;—why, love at best
Is only a delightful jest;—
As sad for one, as bad for three,
So I suggest you jest with me.
You shake your head, and wonder why
A denizen of dear May-Fair
Should ever condescend to try
And build her Castle in the Air.
I’ve music, books, and all, you say,
To make the gravest lady gay;
I’m told my essays show research,
My sketches have endow’d a church.
I’ve partners, who have witty parts;
I’ve lovers, who have broken hearts;
Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues,
My doctor gives me—all the news.
Poor Polly would not care to fly;
And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.
To realise your tête-à-tête
Might jeopardise a giddy pate;
And quel ennui! if, pride apart,
I lost my head, or you your heart.
I’m more than sorry, I’m afraid
My Castle is already made.
And is this all we gain by fancies
For noon-day dreams, and waking trances,—