XX
The Golden Head
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 Maid,
And leave a metal grace,
A graven head.
Thus would I slay—
Ah, desperate device!
The vital day
That trembles in thine eyes,
And let the red lips close
That sang so well,
And drive away the rose,
To leave a shell.
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