On his “Sonnets of the Wingless Hours”

I Wrought them like a targe of hammered gold On which all Troy is battling round and round; Or Circe’s cup, embossed with snakes that wound Through buds and myrtles, fold on scaly fold; Or like gold coins, which Lydian tombs may hold Stamped with winged racers, in the old red ground; Or twined gold armlets from the funeral mound Of some great viking, terrible of old. I know not in what metal I have wrought; Nor whether what I fashioned will be thrust Beneath the clouds that hide forgotten thought; But if it is of gold it will not rust; And when the time is ripe it will be brought Into the sun, and glitter through its dust.