Morsel after morsel flee 
 As merrily, as giddily . . . 
 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! 
 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!