pale meteors through sapphire air.
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
The meek, the white, the gentle,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
Comes Apollo with a rush,
Till then I never wakèd,
When you drink your wine, in autumn.
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
A shape less recognizable each week,
In the prison of his days
pale meteors through sapphire air.
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
The meek, the white, the gentle,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
Comes Apollo with a rush,
Till then I never wakèd,
When you drink your wine, in autumn.
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
A shape less recognizable each week,
In the prison of his days