FANCY.

O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,

Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,

And fragrant as the feathers of that bird,

Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.

I ask thee not to work, or sigh — play on,

From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred;

The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,

And waved memorial grass of Marathon.

Play, but be gentle, not as on that day

I saw thee running down the rims of doom

With stars thou hadst been stealing — while they lay

Smothered in light and blue — clasped to thy breast;

Bring rather to me in the firelit room

A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.