A PHIAL.
This precious bubble of the antique world,As light as lifted foam, as frail as breath,Endured when empires died a desperate death,When heaven on earth, when tower on tower was hurled.
Hues of a beetle's temporary wingHave grown on this in centuries of slime;Dials have told a rosary of timeFor every nuance of this feeble thing.
Were it devised at first for costly balm,The distillation of a summer's fee,To sweeten some "Ah sweet, I dote on thee,"And over all there lies a common calm. . . .
No more, no more the heavy branches dripAnother fragrance to the tangled moss,Translucent insects flamed and hummed across;The sleep they soothed is grown eternal sleep.
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