He sung of Sisters close and sweet, and taught;
Of sea, and wealth, he droned a mournful view.
Of Death himself, as fine as Death, he brought
A smile to my lips when fear they knew.
And lovely, to a barren cheek he drew,
The very first and only tear, he claimed.
Of no return, that no man ever knew;
So quick and fleet an image, thus he named:
“In Xanadu…” he dreamt a man beyond;
A man, within that Sunny Dome, was he.
Who dwelt in Paradise that dream had spawned;
I know, his home, he must have lived to see.
For I, enticed by Crystal Caves of Ice;
By Honey Dew, have drunk of Paradise.