White Artist He, Who, Breezeless Nights, From Tingling Stars Jocosely Whirls, A Harlequin In Spangled Tights, His Wand A Pot Of Pounded Pearls. The Field A Hasty Pallet; For, In Thin Or Thick, With Daub And Streak, It Stretches From The Barn-Gate'S Bar To The Bleached Ribbon Of The Creek. A Great Geometer Is He; For, On The Creek'S Diaphanous Silk, Sphere, Cone, And Star Exquisitely He's Drawn In Crystal Lines Of Milk. Most Delicate, His Talent Keen On Casement Panes He Lavishes, In Many A Lilliputian Scene Of Vague White Hives And Milky Bees, That Sparkling In Still Swarms Delight, Or Bow The Jeweled Bells Of Flowers; - Of Dim, Deep Landscapes Of The Night, Hanging Down Limpid Domes Quaint Showers Of Feathery Stars And Meteors Above An Upland'S Glimmering Ways, Where Gambol 'Neath The Feverish Stars The Erl-King And The Fleecy Fays. Or Last, One Arabesque Of Ferns, Chrysanthemums And Mistletoe, And Death-Pale Roses Bunched In Urns That With An Innate Glory Glow. In Leafless Woodlands Saturnine, Where Reckless Winds, Like Goblins Mad, Screech Swinging In Each Barren Vine, His Wagship Shapes A Lesson Sad: When Slyly Touched By His White Hand Of Midas-Magic, Forests Old Dariuses Of Pomp Then Stand Barbaric-Crowned With Living Gold.... Patrician State, Plebeian Blood Soon Foster Sybarites, And They, Squand'Ring Their Riches, Wood By Wood, Die Palsied Wrecks Debauched And Gray.