Sydney Wharton to a Dose of Haschich

Thou that canst whirl me in a magic swoon

Through caverns filled with phosphorescent snakes,

Across the earth's red central lava lakes,

And on a dragon to the ice-blue moon;

Or ocean orchards which the mermen prune

With knives of gold, and where the drowned man wakes;

Or halls of ruby, brighter than the flakes

Of crimson glory that the dawn has strewn:

Vouchsafe to whirl me once again to-night,

Through endless dreams of beauty or of fear—

Through endless realms of horror or delight.

Oh, whirl me where thou wilt,—away from here,

Where all is petty, colourless, and trite,

And every minute like a dragging year!