Tall Ambrosia

Among the signs of autumn I perceive

The Roman wormwood (called by learned men

Ambrosia elatior, food for gods,—

For to impartial science the humblest weed

Is as immortal once as the proudest flower—)

Sprinkles its yellow dust over my shoes

As I cross the now neglected garden.

—We trample under foot the food of gods

And spill their nectar in each dropp of dew—

My honest shoes, fast friends that never stray

Far from my couch, thus powdered, countryfied,

Bearing many a mile the marks of their adventure,

At the post-house disgrace the Gallic gloss

Of those well dressed ones who no morning dew

Nor Roman wormwood ever have been through,

Who never walk but are transported rather—

For what old crime of theirs I do not gather.