A gauze reveals the orbed lamp, Like a fair breast beneath a guimpe, And drowsily The shimmer of its light ascends, Flushing with gold and crimson blends The ceiling high. The silence frames no sound of things, Save for the pendulum that swings Its golden disk, And many winds that roam and weep, Or stealthy to the hall-way sweep, To dance and frisk. It's ball-night at the Embassy. My coat's limp sleeves are signalling me To dress anon. My waistcoat yawns. My shirt obtuse Seems raising high its wristbands loose, To be put on. A narrow boot's abundant glaze Reflects the ruddy firelight's blaze. Have I forgot? A glove's flat fingers span the shelf. A thin cravat protrudes itself, And begs a knot. Then must I forth? But what a bore-- To seek the over-crowded door! To fall in line Of coaches bearing coats of arms And haughty beauties with their charms, Superb and fine! To stand against a portal wide And see the surging mass inside Bear form on form: Old faces, faces fresh and young, Black coats low bodices among,-- A motley swarm! And puffy backs that hide their red With laces fine of costly thread Aerial, Dandies, diplomatists, that press, With features dull, expressionless, At fashion's call. What! Brave, to win a glance of hers, The rows of lynx-eyed dowagers! Try undeterred To speak the dear name of my dear, And whisper softly in her ear Love's little word! Nay, but I'll not! Her eye shall heed A letter in the flowers I'll speed. No ball-room now! Let Parma violets make good Whatever be her passing mood. They hold my vow. Ensconced with Heine or with Taine, Or, if I like, the Goncourts twain, The time will go. I'll dream, until the hour shall stir Reality, and wait for her. She'll come, I know. ART More fair the work, more strong, Stamped in resistance long,-- Enamel, marble, song. Poet, no shackles bear, Yet bid thy Muse to wear The buskin bound with care. A fashion loose forsake,-- A shoe of sloven make, That any foot may take. Sculptor, the clay withstand, That yieldeth to the hand, Though listless heart command. Contend till thou have wrought, Till the hard stone have caught The beauty of thy thought. With Paros match thy might, And with Carrara bright, That guard the line of light. Borrow from Syracuse The bronze's stubborn use, Wherein thy form to choose. And with a delicate grace In the veined onyx trace Apollo's perfect face. Painter, put thou aside The transient. Be thy pride The colour furnace-tried. Limn thou, fantastic, free Blue sirens of the sea, And beasts of heraldry. Before a nimbus gold Transcendently uphold The Child, the Cross foretold. Things perish. Gods have passed. But song sublimely cast Shall citadels outlast. And the forgotten seal Turned by the plowman's steel An emperor may reveal. For Art alone is great: The bust survives the state, The crown the potentate.