Poetry Archives

My lands, not thine, we look upon,
Friend Croesus, hill and vale and lawn.
  Mine every woodland madrigal,
  And mine thy singing waterfall
That vaguely hints of Helicon.

Mark how thine upland slopes have drawn
A golden glory from the dawn!—
Fool’s gold?—thy dullness proves them all
    My lands—not thine!

For when all title-deeds are gone,
Still, still will satyr, nymph, and faun
  Through brake and covert pipe and call
  In dances bold and bacchanal—
For them, for me, you hold in pawn,
    My lands—not thine!