The gems that ivories clip,
And chrysoberyls puerile,
Mingling their gleams, beguile
The dole of the black tulip;
The fountain weeps in the old
Garden o'er flowers sad,
Which by the dawn are clad
In amethyst and in gold:
In the boxwood shadow lingers,
In sentimental _fetes,_
The _chevalier_, and awaits
The princess whose pale fingers
Are flowers that bring relief
Unto her languorous grief.