A VOLUPTUARYWho's this that lispeth in the thickening throngWhich crowds to claim distinction in my song?Fresh from "the palms and temples of the South,"The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth:Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale,And that the odor of a spicy tale.Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea(No finer one did Kubla Khan decree)Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost standWith joys and mysteries on either hand,Dost keep a poet to report the ritesAnd sing the tale of those Elysian nights?Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young.I'm no great bard, but—I can hold my tongue.
Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throngWhich crowds to claim distinction in my song?Fresh from "the palms and temples of the South,"The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth:Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale,And that the odor of a spicy tale.Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea(No finer one did Kubla Khan decree)Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost standWith joys and mysteries on either hand,Dost keep a poet to report the ritesAnd sing the tale of those Elysian nights?Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young.I'm no great bard, but—I can hold my tongue.