My heart's delight and grief are not a bait
For market, to be soiled by unknown hands.
Bright toys my Fancy gives to your demands;
My inmost temple opens not its gate.

If you turn not your back upon me straight,
Come to my park. How dim and cool it stands!
Go amid flowers brought from southern lands,
And view my portal, sculptured and ornate.

Over the threshold, though, I shall not lead you.
The stony sentinel will never heed you,
He lets but light and perfume visit me.

You 'd force me? Good! A single word I utter,
And park and castle in an eyelid's flutter
Are gone, and whirling sand is all you see.