Solid masses of raw dreams,
And Midas made me a God,
As I fell through gilded pages.
And gold cascades down in streams,
Applause and the people awed,
‘Twas the swift work of mages.
Peasants fix their mangled seams,
I rejoice of powers old,
And long forgotten ages.
My statue discontent screams,
It can sing no ballad,
Chipped for wealth by angels.
