To-Night I'll Have My Friar, Let Me Think About My Room, I'll Have It In The Pink; It Should Be Rich And Sombre, And The Moon, Just In Its Mid-Life In The Midst Of June, Should Look Thro' Four Large Windows And Display Clear, But For Gold-Fish Vases In The Way, Their Glassy Diamonding On Turkish Floor; The Tapers Keep Aside, An Hour And More, To See What Else The Moon Alone Can Show; While The Night-Breeze Doth Softly Let Us Know My Terrace Is Well Bower'D With Oranges. Upon The Floor The Dullest Spirit Sees A Guitar-Ribband And A Lady'S Glove Beside A Crumple-Leaved Tale Of Love; A Tambour-Frame, With Venus Sleeping There, All Finish'D But Some Ringlets Of Her Hair; A Viol, Bow-Strings Torn, Cross-Wise Upon A Glorious Folio Of Anacreon; A Skull Upon A Mat Of Roses Lying, Ink'D Purple With A Song Concerning Dying; An Hour-Glass On The Turn, Amid The Trails Of Passion-Flower; Just In Time There Sails A Cloud Across The Moon, The Lights Bring In! And See What More My Phantasy Can Win. It Is A Gorgeous Room, But Somewhat Sad; The Draperies Are So, As Tho' They Had Been Made For Cleopatra'S Winding-Sheet; And Opposite The Stedfast Eye Doth Meet A Spacious Looking-Glass, Upon Whose Face, In Letters Raven-Sombre, You May Trace Old "Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin." Greek Busts And Statuary Have Ever Been Held, By The Finest Spirits, Fitter Far Than Vase Grotesque And Siamesian Jar; Therefore 'Tis Sure A Want Of Attic Taste That I Should Rather Love A Gothic Waste Of Eyesight On Cinque-Coloured Potter'S Clay, Than On The Marble Fairness Of Old Greece. My Table-Coverlits Of Jason'S Fleece And Black Numidian Sheep-Wool Should Be Wrought, Gold, Black, And Heavy, From The Lama Brought. My Ebon Sofas Should Delicious Be With Down From Leda'S Cygnet Progeny. My Pictures All Salvator'S, Save A Few Of Titian'S Portraiture, And One, Though New, Of Haydon'S In Its Fresh Magnificence. My Wine, O Good! 'Tis Here At My Desire, And I Must Sit To Supper With My Friar.