YOU ask us if by rule or no Our many-colored songs are wrought: Upon the cunning loom of thought, We weave our fancies, so and so. The busy shuttle comes and goes Across the rhymes, and deftly weaves A tissue out of autumn leaves, With here a thistle, there a rose. With art and patience thus is made The poet's perfect Cloth of Gold: When woven so, nor moth nor mould Nor time can make its colors fade.
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