Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward

Thy thunder off, nor want the angels’ guard!
But Pippa—just one such mischance would spoil
Her day that lightens the next twelve-month’s toil
At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!
⁠And here I let time slip for nought!
Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam—caught
With a single splash from my ewer!
You that would mock the best pursuer,
Was my basin over-deep?
One splash of water ruins you asleep,
And up, up fleet your brilliant bits
Wheeling and counterwheeling,
Reeling, broken beyond healing—
Now grow together on the ceiling!
That will task your wits!
Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see
Morsel after morsel flee
As merrily, as giddily …
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,
Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?
Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?
New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes’ nipple,
Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird’s poll!
Be sure if corals, branching ’neath the ripple
Of ocean, bud there,—fairies watch unroll
Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse
Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!
I am queen of thee, floweret;
And each fleshy blossom
Preserve I not—(safer
Than leaves that enbower it,
Or shells that embosom)
—From weevil and chafer?