AH, my singer of olden days,
That tweaked your stupid time by the nose,
Taunted, tippled, and went your ways —
What did you care for laurels and bays?
Down from the balcony fluttered a rose.
High in the heaven of heavens afar,
Glittered your planet — “Glory,” suppose;
And ways so foul should the wanderer bar!
What did you care for the mire — or the star?
Down from the balcony fluttered a rose.