Lolling in snow, like kings in ermine coats, the gilt-crowned
bottles lie.... Our thoughts are dangled in
a laughter of leaves as bunches of blue and yellow grapes
for faery beggars, for ragged fancies to pluck and taste.
Our music shall be the minstrelsy of ghostly ballad-mongers
that have stolen from the ashen banquets of death to bless
our revels.
Our spirits shall flit like those winged faces of cherubs
that never can alight, but swing forever on the azure ribbons