 | Collected poems |  |
531
TO THE SAME
[“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said]
“Book against book.” “Agreed,” I said:
But 'twas the truck of Diomed!
But 'twas the truck of Diomed!
—And yet, in Fairy-land, I'm told
Dead leaves—as these—will turn to gold.
Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see!
Nothing transmutes like sympathy.
Dead leaves—as these—will turn to gold.
Take them, Sir Alchemist, and see!
Nothing transmutes like sympathy.
| Collected poems | |