With forward trend—’tis but a trinket-thing,
Perchance not even as much, but give a twist
Just so far round that with its tiny shine
This stone of dullish red can fling its rays
And presto! you are viewless and go striding
Like gods enclouded up and down the world.
Therefore contemn it not, for once again—
It is a royal ring, and this same day
Long since I chose in which to make my present.
’Tis you alone may wear it, no one else.