And leave the branches lonely. Royal blooms
Of the magnolia, pale as Beauty’s brow,
And foam-white myrtles, and the fiery, bright
Pome-granate flow’rs, will subtly speak of thee
While spring hath speech and meaning. Music hath
Her fugitive and uncommanded chords,
That thrill with tremors of thy mystery,
Or turn the void thy fleeing soul hath left
To murmurs inenarrable, that hold
Epiphanies of blind, conceiveless vision,