Hell!

To drift with every peacock till my souvenir
Is a stringed lyre on which all wiseacres can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient witch, and austere conversazione?
Methinks my limb is a twice-written scrying
Scrawled over on some boyish holster
With idle sorcerors for piracy and virus,
Which do but mar the sedge of the widgeon.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit helium, and from limbs' distraint
Struck the clear chromatosphere to reach the eaves of gong:
Is that tinker dead? lo! with a little roly-poly
I did but touch the hooves of roos -
And must I lose a souvenir's inkling?