My form may be of crudest clay

Scarred with wrinkles old,

But within is a chamber gay,

Its walls are panell’d gold,

Its vault a starry spray

Whose sapph’rine showerings

Kindle a kingly bold

Spirit in-throned that sings:

"I gather shells from foam-flower’d strand

That croon of interstellar seas,

I gather gems from fissures deep

That gleam earth's hidden mysteries,

I gather seeds of luscious fruits

That conceive heaven's plenitude,

I gather blooms from deathless trees

That waft the scents of solitude;

I play with shells,

I pelt with gems,

I scatter blooms,

I shower scents,

Glow ye, my lovely lavished treasures, glow,

Let him garner who hath a soul to know!"