42
Brooding with mocking grin on Paris town:
Nor yet where London, Queen of Hypocrites,
Hides in a mist of fog and sea-coal smoke,
Her splendid squalor and gilded infamy
Perchance, where Venice, flaring all with lights,
Set like a standish in her shallow seas,
Riots throughout a half-year's carnival?
Nay, best of all, where yellow Arno brims
In one green vineyard plain by the Tuscan town,
And cluster'd palaces of the Medici,
We'll watch the trees rock 'gainst a golden sky,
Swart Cypress, like a distaff for the Fates,
Or green bronze flame aspiring silently.
Lenore:
Dreams! Dreams!
Sylvester.(Takes the posset from the hob and drinks it):
That yet shall be reality!
But I must rest a little whilst I may.
