Fragment Of "The Castle Builder"
To-night
I'll
have
my
friar
--
let
me
think
About
my
room,
--
I'll
have
it
in
the
pink;
It
should
be
rich
and
sombre,
and
the
moon,
Just
in
its
mid-life
in
the
midst
of
June,
Should
look
thro'
four
large
windows
and
display
Clear,
but
for
gold-fish
vases
in
the
way,
Their
glassy
diamonding
on
Turkish
floor;
The
tapers
keep
aside,
an
hour
and
more,
To
see
what
else
the
moon
alone
can
show;
While
the
night-breeze
doth
softly
let
us
know
My
terrace
is
well
bower'd
with
oranges.
Upon
the
floor
the
dullest
spirit
sees
A
guitar-ribband
and
a
lady's
glove
Beside
a
crumple-leaved
tale
of
love;
A
tambour-frame,
with
Venus
sleeping
there,
All
finish'd
but
some
ringlets
of
her
hair;
A
viol,
bow-strings
torn,
cross-wise
upon
A
glorious
folio
of
Anacreon;
A
skull
upon
a
mat
of
roses
lying,
Ink'd
purple
with
a
song
concerning
dying;
An
hour-glass
on
the
turn,
amid
the
trails
Of
passion-flower;
--
just
in
time
there
sails
A
cloud
across
the
moon,
--
the
lights
bring
in!
And
see
what
more
my
phantasy
can
win.
It
is
a
gorgeous
room,
but
somewhat
sad;
The
draperies
are
so,
as
tho'
they
had
Been
made
for
Cleopatra's
winding-sheet;
And
opposite
the
stedfast
eye
doth
meet
A
spacious
looking-glass,
upon
whose
face,
In
letters
raven-sombre,
you
may
trace
Old
"Mene,
Mene,
Tekel
Upharsin."
Greek
busts
and
statuary
have
ever
been
Held,
by
the
finest
spirits,
fitter
far
Than
vase
grotesque
and
Siamesian
jar;
Therefore
'tis
sure
a
want
of
Attic
taste
That
I
should
rather
love
a
Gothic
waste
Of
eyesight
on
cinque-coloured
potter's
clay,
Than
on
the
marble
fairness
of
old
Greece.
My
table-coverlits
of
Jason's
fleece
And
black
Numidian
sheep-wool
should
be
wrought,
Gold,
black,
and
heavy,
from
the
Lama
brought.
My
ebon
sofas
should
delicious
be
With
down
from
Leda's
cygnet
progeny.
My
pictures
all
Salvator's,
save
a
few
Of
Titian's
portraiture,
and
one,
though
new,
Of
Haydon's
in
its
fresh
magnificence.
My
wine
--
O
good!
'tis
here
at
my
desire,
And
I
must
sit
to
supper
with
my
friar.
