MOON-HORNED orchid in the oak,
Uttering thee, what spirit spoke?
Thou who hearest patiently
Humble patois of the bee,
Hast thou anything to tell
Of the angel Israfel ?
Who would murmur half aloud
Word of wind or star or cloud,
If thy beauty were a throat
For his far ethereal note?
He by whom thou wert designed
Kin of cloud and star and wind?
Mystic flower, could’st thou say
If the little children play
Much with Mozart where he dreams
Daylong by the heavenly streams?
Does he tire of asphodel?
And with Keats, oh, is it well?