I.—Fancy.
O
fancy, if thou fliest, come back anon,1
Thy fluttering wings are soft as love’s first word,2
And fragrant as the feathers of that bird3
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.4
I ask thee not to work, or sigh—play on,5
From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred ;6
The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,7
And waved memorial grass of Marathon.8
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day9
I saw thee running down the rims of doom10
With stars thou hadst been stealing—while they lay11
Smothered in light and blue—clasped to thy breast ;12
Bring rather to me in the firelit room13
A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.14
A hooded figure crouches in the foreground. Their face is concealed by their cloak.
The figure is
hand-spinning; they hold a drop spindle and a distaff. A pair of shears lies on the
ground by their feet. Several angel-like figures
float above the hooded figure, including one man who wears a crown. Some of the angels
clasp their hands in prayer. Others hold out
objects such as a flare and a lyre with broken strings. There are trees, a body of
water, and a built structure in the background.
Full-page illustration contained within a single-ruled border.