Fancy

O fancy, if thou flyest, come back anon,
  Thy fluttering wings are soft as love's first word,
  And fragrant as the feathers of that bird,
Which feeds upon the budded cinnamon.
I ask thee not to work, or sigh-play on,
  From nought that was not, was, or is, deterred;
  The flax that Old Fate spun thy flights have stirred,
And waved memorial grass of Marathon.
Play, but be gentle, not as on that day
  I saw thee running down the rims of doom
With stars thou hadst been stealing-while they lay
  Smothered in light and blue-clasped to thy breast;
Bring rather to me in the firelit room
  A netted halcyon bird to sing of rest.