MY lands, not thine, we look upon,
Friend Croesus, hill and vale and lawn.
Mine every woodland madrigal,
And mine thy singing waterfall
That vaguely hints of Helicon.
Mark how thine upland slopes have drawn
A golden glory from the dawn!—
Fool's gold?— thy dullness proves them all
My lands — not thine!
For when all title-deeds are gone,
Still, still will satyr, nymph, and faun
Through brake and covert pipe and call
In dances bold and bacchanal —
For them, for me, you hold in pawn,
My lands — not thine!