Saying; "O ye, The organ-stops of being's harmony;The blushes on existence's pale face, Lending it sudden grace;Without whom we should but guess Heaven's worth By blank negations of this sordid earth, (So haply to the blind may light Be but gloom's undetermined opposite);Ye who are thus as the refracting air Whereby we see Heaven's sun before it rise Above the dull line of our mortal skies;As breathing on the strained ear that sighs From comrades viewless unto strained eyes, Soothing our terrors in the lampless night;Ye who can make this world where all is deeming What world ye list, being arbiters of seeming;Attend upon her ways, benignant powers!
Unroll ye life a carpet for her feet, And cast ye down before them blossomy hours, Until her going shall be clogged with sweet!
All dear emotions whose new-bathed hair, Still streaming from the soul, in love's warm air Smokes with a mist of tender fantasies;All these, And all the heart's wild growths which, swiftly bright, Spring up the crimson agarics of a night, No pain in withering, yet a joy arisen;And all thin shapes more exquisitely rare, More subtly fair, Than these weak ministering words have spell to prison Within the magic circle of this rhyme;And all the fays who in our creedless clime Have sadly ceased Bearing to other children childhood's proper feast;Whose robes are fluent crystal, crocus-hued, Whose wings are wind a-fire, whose mantles wrought From spray that falling rainbows shake These, ye familiars to my wizard thought, Make things of journal custom unto her;With lucent feet imbrued, If young Day tread, a glorious vintager, The wine-press of the purple-foamed east;Or round the nodding sun, flush-faced and sunken, His wild bacchantes drunken Reel, with rent woofs a-flaunt, their westering rout.