Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave?
Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone,
Are floor-work there! But do I let alone
That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule
Once and forever?—Floor-work? No such fool!
Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I'd say
I, is it, must be blessed? Then, my own way
And accepting life on its own terms,
Bless me! Give firmer arm and fleeter foot,
I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute