We reckon by his songs, each song a flower,

The long, long daylight, numbering hour by hour,

Each breathing sweetness like a bridal bower.

His morning glory shall we e'er forget?
His noontide's full-blown lily coronet?
His evening primrose has not opened yet; 30

Nay, even if creeping Time should hide the skies

In midnight from his century-laden eyes, Darkened like his who sang of Paradise,

Would not some hidden song-bud open bright

As the resplendent cactus of the night That floods the gloom with fragrance and with light?

How can we praise the verse whose music flows

With solemn cadence and majestic close, Pure as the dew that filters through the rose?