And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling, Reeling, broken beyond healing-- 80 Now grow together on the ceiling! That will task your wits. Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily ... 85 Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! 90 Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there, fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! I am queen of thee, floweret! 95 And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not--safer Than leaves that embower it, Or shells that embosom-- From weevil and chafer? 100 Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me! --Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please today? 105 My morn, noon, eve, and night--how spend my day? Tomorrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk. But, this one day, I have leave to go, And play out my fancy's fullest games; 110 I may fancy all day--and it shall be so-- That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!