To the lost life, alas! no more returning—
In this to come no semblance of the past—
Only to wait!—hoping this ceaseless yearning
May, 'ere long, end—and rest may come at last.
PALMA.
What tellest thou to heaven,
Thou royal tropic tree?
At morn or noon or even,
Proud dweller by the sea,
What is thy song to heaven?
The homesick heart that fainted
In torrid sun and air,
With peace becomes acquainted
Beholding thee so fair—
With joy becomes acquainted:
And charms itself with fancies
About thy kingly race—
With gay and wild romances
That mimic thee in grace—
Of supple, glorious fancies.
I feel thou art not tender,
Scion of sun and sea—
The wild-bird does not render
To thee its minstrelsy—
Fearing thou art not tender:
But calm, serene and saintly,
As highborn things should be:
Who, if they love us faintly,
Make us love reverently,
Because they are so saintly.
