(To Ellen Terry) As one who poring on a Grecian urn Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold
The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold
Against these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons Dip and drift like satin moons,
I He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red,