By the early scents of morning,
As the golden rays do beam.
When the owls have ceased their mourning,
And the night have weaved the scheme.
There...
At doors of mind do pound
Thoughts of art profound,
Along with madness to set free,
Sensed they the sweetest nepenthe
For when they gather or depart,
They, dreams o'splendour-weaving art
Are poured into a dainty cup of french coffee.