Beneath the glass, my face a-bloom;

With poppies red, and roses hue;

Vining from chrysanthemums undermost;

Where I lordly grasped the flaming sun,

Where Blooming incarnatum lie,

Spirits dare not tread

where spirits be;

Blood is never shed when tonic sees to

That this will not be so

Thus I lie beneath the glass;

Safe like the butterfly

withheld,

Far and Unreachable as the sun,

Somewhere near the bottle’s end