 | Spindrift |  |
176
SONNET.
[What time the flaming arrows of the dawn]
What time the flaming arrows of the dawnScatter the starry cohorts of the night,
And in her leafy covert far withdrawn
Warbles the nightingale her soul's delight,—
From golden visions of my love I start—
As some spent wanderer stretched on Libyan sand
Wakes, with sick pause and tumult of the heart,
From dreams of fountains in a flowery land,
Yet raises not his eyes—because he knows
Nor stream nor shade through all the desert lorn
May greet them. So against the light I close
My desolate eyes, because henceforth nor morn
Nor eve, through all the desert years, may bring,
Now She is lost, surcease of sorrowing.
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