My luckless lady needs no sheet of sun
Nor winter’s briskest word
   To stir her now.
Needs not these
    Nor the rage of print on a wood told page
      To lift her high
      And let her lie
In justice’s fold and the dome-shaped splendor.
    If time betray not morning’s carved forecast
       She will be dancing
           In that unpredictable palace of quaint devices
To sophisticated music
         And multitudinous green chimes.