Muse of my heart, who lovest well the palace hall,
Wilt have, when boreal winds through January blow,
During the black ennui of evenings drowned with snow,
A brand or brazier for thy feet purpureal!
Wilt thou re-animate thy shoulders marble-cold
In the nocturnal rays that pierce the shuttered pane?
Feeling thy purse go dry, thy palace crumble, gain
From azure vaults of nigh the long-inviolate gold?
Thou needest, that thine evening bread be given still,
To swing among the choir the sacred thurible,
And sing Te Deums in most solemn unbelief;
Or, starveling mountebank, deploy thy loveliness
And laughter drenched with tears of all-unknown distress,
To charm the vulgar herd's ignoble spleen and grief.