On His "Sonnets of the Wingless Hours"

I wrought them like a targe of hammered gold
On which all Troy is battling round and round ;
Or Circe's cup, embossed with snakes that wound
Through buds and myrtles, fold on scaly fold ;
Or like gold coins, which Lydian tombs may hold,
Stamped with winged racers, in the old red ground ;
Or twined gold armlets from the funeral mound
Of some great viking, terrible of old.
I know not in what metal I have wrought ;
Nor whether what I fashioned will be thrust
Beneath the clouds that hide forgotten thought ;
But if it is of gold it will not rust ;
And when the time is ripe it will be brought