Hadst thou not with soft lilied fingers thrilled
The strings of love’s harp, inviting me to hearken
Yesternight, when the golden beaker was fill’d
With osmanthus-brew’d wine, the couch with a vision?
Thou of the desert, the wind, the wingèd steed,
Thou of the mist, the flow'rs, the riverside town:
Hadst thou not reserved Poesy for seed,
That would bud into the bay wherewith a crown
Would be woven, the loveliest crown of bay?
Hadst thou not obnubilat’d the occidental sun
’Fore mine eyes? Facing the high clouds of Cathay,
Yet, how could I not deem myself a swan?
  Therefore ’twas not thee who cumber me evermore,
  But that dungeon miscalled the height, Confucian lore.