To One Unnamed

The stars of last night and the wind of last night
Are west of the Painted Chamber and east of Cinnamon Hall.
. . . Though I have for my body no wings like those of the bright-coloured phoenix,
Yet I feel the harmonious heart-beat of the Sacred Unicorn.
Across the spring-wine, while it warms me, I prompt you how to bet
Where, group by group, we are throwing dice in the light of a crimson lamp;
Till the rolling of a drum, alas, calls me to my duties
And I mount my horse and ride away, like a water-plant cut adrift.