Chapter I

To no crag-crowning castle above the wild main,
To no bower of fair lady or villa in Spain;
To no deep, hidden vaults where the stored jewels shine,
Or the South’s ruddy sunlight is prisoned in wine;
To no gardens enchanted where nightingales sing,
And the flowers of all climes breathe perpetual spring:
To none of all these
They give access, my keys,
My magical ebon and ivory keys.