Whose inlaid marbles mock the flowers,
Where burns thy lord’s chiboque of amber,
To charm the languid evening hours.
There sounds, for thee, the fond lute’s yearning
Through all enchanted tales of old,
And spicy cressets, dimly burning,
Swing on their chains of Persian gold.
No more, in half-remembered vision,
Thy distant childhood comes to view;
That star-like world of shapes Elysian