Page:Poems Jones.djvu/128

If costlier spices burn for thee,
 Oh, who the precious news will tell?

VI.
What stream our valley-shades will cleave,
 Crystal with leaping mountain-rills,
Some verdant laurel-shred to leave,
 And prove thee dweller on the hills?
What bird her snowy wing will launch,
 O'er floods where suns may never shine,
To bring the little, flowering branch,
 And prove the whole sweet summer thine?

VII.
Howbeit for these we vainly yearn,
 What song nor cymbal may recite,
Nor eager eye and ear discern,
 Our vibrant hearts will learn aright;
And sinking into sunless sleep,
 The glad refrain will murmur o'er,—
"Now drift us on, dark-rolling deep,
 A friend will meet us on the shore!"

VIII.
Phantoms of war, ah fade and fleet!
 The lilies lift their chaliced snow;
Soft are the dews, the balms are sweet;
 Some breath of heaven begins to blow,