‘Tis but a vague, invarious delight br As gold that rains about some buried king. br br As the fine flakes, br When tourists frolicking br Stamp on his roof or in the glazing light br Try photographs, wolf down their ale and cakes br And start to inspect some further pyramid; br br As the fine dust, in the hid cell br Beneath their transitory step and merriment, br Drifts through the air, and the sarcophagus br Gains yet another crust br Of useless riches for the occupant, br So I, the fires that lit once dreams br Now over and spent, br Lie dead within four walls br And so now love br Rains down and so enriches some stiff case, br And strews a mind with precious metaphors, br br And so the space br Of my still consciousness br Is full of gilded snow, br br The which, no cat has eyes enough br To see the brightness of.