And cabinets with gems inlaid, The legacy of parted years, Full curtains of festoon’d brocade, And Venice lent her chandeliers. Quaint carvings dark, and, pillow’d light, Meet couches for the Sybarite; Embroider’d carpets, soft as down, The last new novel fresh from town. On silken cushion, rich with braid, A shaggy pet from Skye was laid, And, drowsy eyed, would dosing swing A parrot in his golden ring.
All these I saw one happy day, And more than now I care to name; Here, lately shut, that workbox lay, There stood your own embroidery frame. And over this piano bent A Form, from some pure region sent.
Her dusky tresses lustrous shone, In massy clusters, like your own; And, as her fingers pressed the keys, How strangely they resembled these.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorn’d my Castle in the Air; And Life, without the least foundation, Became a charming occupation. We viewed, with much serene disdain, The smoke and scandal of Cockaigne, Its dupes and dancers, knaves and nuns, Possess’d by blues, or bored by duns. With souls released from earthly tether, We gazed upon the moon together. Our sympathy, from night to noon, Rose crescent with that crescent moon, We lived and loved in cloudless climes, And died (in rhymes) a thousand times.
Yes, you, you only, Lady Fair, Adorn’d my Castle in the Air, Now, tell me, could you dwell content In such a baseless tenement? Or could so delicate a flower Exist in such a breezy bower? Because, if you _would_ settle in it, ’Twere built, for love, in half a minute.
What’s love? you ask;—why, love at best Is only a delightful jest;— As sad for one, as bad for three, So _I_ suggest you jest with me.
You shake your head, and wonder why A denizen of dear May-Fair Should ever condescend to try And build her Castle in the Air.
I’ve music, books, and all, you say, To make the gravest lady gay; I’m told my essays show research, My sketches have endow’d a church. I’ve partners, who have witty parts; I’ve lovers, who have broken hearts; Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues, My doctor gives me—all the news. Poor Polly would not care to fly; And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.
To realise your tête-à-tête Might jeopardise a giddy pate; And _quel ennui_! if, pride apart, I lost my head, or you your heart. I’m more than sorry, I’m afraid My Castle is already made.