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.



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