Song Writer Paid With Air

I sit on a white wood box Smeared with the black name Of a seller of white sugar. The little brown table is so dirty That if I had food I do not think I could eat. How can I promise violets drunken in wine For your amusement, How can I powder your blue cotton dress With splinters of emerald, How can I sing you songs of the amber pear, Or pour for the finger-tips of your white fingers Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl? From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century).