It was amusing on that antique grass,
Seated halfway between the green and blue,
To waken music gentle and extinct.
Under the old walls where the daisies grew
Sprinkled in cinquecento style, as though
Archangels might have stepped there yesterday.
But it was we, mortal and young, who strolled
And fluted quavering music, for a day
Casual heirs of all we looked upon.
Such pipers of the emerald afternoon
Could only be the heirs of perfect time
When every leaf distinctly brushed with gold