Who in some fair, far south seek meed of suns—
O! crueller than to them rude Winter’s wing,
Life’s storms to her who seeks such sheltering!
XXXII
That little song you sang to me, Dear One,
Has blotted out the present, brought to view
This painted vision that a pagan knew:
Quai of Alexandria, low, fading sun,
Frail, floating, purple night-shadows that run
Across sands deeply bronze, dulled by no dew;