A Crown of of ivy!
I submit my
To the young hand that gives it, --young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them
My sense with freshness, -- Fancy's rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,--And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus, -- whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
