In the music of the morns Blown through the Conchimarian horns, Down the dark vistas of the reboantic Norns, To the Genius of Eternity Crying, 'Come to me! Come to me!'

Many mellow Cydonian suckets Sweet apples, anthosmial, divine, From the ruby-rimmed beryline buckets Star-gemmed, lily-shaped, hyaline; Like the sweet golden g…

On the beryl-rimmed rebecs of Ruby Brought fresh from the hyaline streams, She played on the banks of the Yuba Such songs as she heard in her dreams.

As an egg, when broken, never Can be mended, but must ever Be the same crushed egg for ever- So shall this dark heart of mine!