Each time that I would find a star While in the mood to play, The toys of Shelley always are In the garret-room of Day. But when I go upstairs to bed With but a spark o' light 'Tis I who often see them spread Upon the floor of Night: Beneath the rafters of the world, Where cloudy cobwebs keep The dust o' darkness that is whirled Away when angels sweep. But when the mood is mine, some day I'll climb that garret stair; Nor shall I be too old to play With wonders scattered there. For all these years are naught to me Who yet would romp afar, In Francis Thompson's nursery Where Shelley's playthings are. |