Much as an old-time tapestry,
Bayeux or Gobelin, it might be,
The wizard weavers weave for me,
In strangely picturesque design,
Of colors rare that intertwine
Like those of Botticelli’s “Spring,”
Or tints that blend a wood-drake’s wing,
With rose-tipped grasses, amethyst,
And blazing jewels, Shylock missed;
While here and there, as if ’twere worn