I ask, if thou might know, to tell me plain
From whence did man so cloak from that disdain
Past which we seldom reach – to welcome see
With bright eyes the celestial shape of thee.
Of such, there is no answer in my breast.
Inclined, I do admit, to think it jest
And thus await the snatching of the rug,
Its green-gold grandeur vanquished with one tug.
But oh! The whisper’s true, the heat and breeze
Does brush my skin. The shimm’ring bended trees
Do stroke the glassy blue; the regal swan
And goose find rest. The sparrow here, then gone.
But ‘tis the heron, mighty Zeus of Coombe
Whose wings like bellows o’er thy face do loom.