Where the sombre azimuths are booming,
Flecked with argent elemental foam,
And the stately colocynths are blooming
In a salicylic monochrome;
There, transported on pellucid pinions,
Sick of common sense I seek repose,
Far from the disconsolate dominions
Tainted by the tyranny of prose.
O'er the whole translunar gamut ranging.
There my astral body slides and skims,