But soon a change smote through me, and I fell
Weary of stillness in the wide blue day,
Weary of breathless beauty, where the rose
Of sunset flushes with no fragrant sigh,
For that my soul was native with the spheres
Where music makes an everlasting morn.
All music in that ancient isle was mine
That pulsed the air or floated on the calm,—
Old music veiled in the bemoaning breeze,
Or whispering kisses to the yearning sea,