Hapless and heavy then
Waxeth the hazy wing;
Year-worn and old in the
Whirl of the earth.
Then the high holt-top,
Mounting, the bird soars;
There, where the winds sleep,
He buildeth a nest;—
Gums the most precious, and
Balms of the sweetest,
Spices and odours, he
Weaves in the nest.
There, in that sun-ark, lo,
Waiteth he wistful;
Summer comes smiling, lo,
Rays smite the pile!
Burden'd with eld-years, and
Weary with slow time,
Slow in his odour-nest
Burneth the bird.
Up from those ashes, then,
Springeth a rare fruit;
Deep in the rare fruit
There coileth a worm.
Weaving bliss-meshes
Around and around it,
Silent and blissful, the
Worm worketh on.
Lo, from the airy web,
Blooming and brightsome,
Young and exulting, the
Phoenix breaks forth.
Round him the birds troop,
Singing and hailing;
Wings of all glories
Engarland the king.
Hymning and hailing,
Through forest and sun-air,
Hymning and hailing,
And speaking him 'King.'