Against the changes of obsequious time,
That shifts his seasons as his lord, the sun,
Dictates which way his supple feet shall run,
My art has stood perennial and sublime.
Beneath the glamor of this simple rhyme,
If morn awaken rosy-hued or dun,
On flowers or snows, I view it all as one
Within the circle of my fairy clime.
My art can plant December's ice with flowers,
Or dust June's roses with unmelting snows,
Or bury deep each thing that leafs and blows.
Scorning the tyranny of nature's powers,
No other law my regal fancy knows
Than his own will among the vassal hours.