Had I The Power To Midas Given Of Old To Touch A Flower And Leave The Petals Gold I Then Might Touch Thy Face, Delightful Boy, And Leave A Metal Grace, A Graven Joy. Thus Would I Slay, - Ah, Desperate Device! The Vital Day That Trembles In Thine Eyes, And Let The Red Lips Close Which Sang So Well, And Drive Away The Rose To Leave A Shell. Then I Myself, Rising Austere And Dumb On The Hight Shelf Of My Half-Lighted Room, Would Place The Shining Bust And Wait Alone, Until I Was But Dust, Buried Unknown. Thus In My Love For Nations Yet Unborn, I Would Remove From Our Two Lives The Morn, And Muse On Loveliness In Mine Armchair, Content Should Time Confess How Sweet You Were.