Less than myself I give not, and am I a little thing?
I walk in scarlet and sendal through the dry plains of hell,
And fine gold and rubies are all I have to sell,
For I am the royal goldsmith whose goods are all of gold,
And you shall live for ever like a little tale that is told;
When kings pass and perish and the dust covers their name,
And the high, impregnable cities are only wind and flame,
The insolent new nations shall rise and read, and know
What a little, little lord you were, because I loved you so.