I sighed—for my feelings were gushing
Round Mnemosyne’s porphyry throne,
Like lava liquescent lay gushing,
And rose to the porphyry throne—
To the filigree footstool were gushing,
That stands on the steps of that throne—
On the solid stone steps of that throne.
I cried—“Shall the winter leaves fret us?”
Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit,
To the freshness and force of the fruit!