Dream again of youth’s digressions, index misty ways of joy,
Turn unto the pagan pastimes of Confucius—as a boy.
Doubtless there are yet secreted some divine distilleries
Overflowing with the wonder worth a dozen dynasties.
But the mandarin, he made no map, contented in old age
To draw the clinging love scenes of the bees on every page.
There he found an inspiration antedating all the Mings,
And he got the ancient essence of the very sweetest things.