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It may be, with a strange delight,
After an age of gazing through
That mirror of things infinite
That well nigh burns the veil of blue
Drawn down between it and our sight—
It may be, with a joy all new,
He sought the darkness and the light
Of day and night.
It may be, that, upon some wave
Which through the incense-laden skies
Scarce forced its ripple, there once clave
A thin earth-fragrance—in such wise
It smote his sense and made him crave
For that strange sweet: maybe, likewise,
The leaves their subtle perfume gave
Up from some grave:
And pleasant did it seem to heap
About the heart dim spells that lull
Profoundly between death and sleep,
To feel mid earthly soothings, dull
