Classic Poem

I spun my soul about with soft cocoons
Of pleasure golden-pale. For me, for me
Were precious things put forth by crescent moons,
Of pearl and milky jade and ivory.
Grave players on ethereal harpsichords,
My senses wrought a music exquisite
As patterned roses, all my life's accords
Were richer, ghostlier than peacocks white.
So in my paradise reserved and fair
I grew as dreamlike as the Elysian dead;
Until a passing Wizard smote me there,
And suddenly my soul inherited
Some gorgeous terrible dukedom of desire
Like those in bright Andromeda's realms of fire.