Nor winds breathe music in the homing sail:
But over sunless hill and fruitless vale,
Gaunt spectres drag the age-long discontent
And ponder what this brief, bright moment meant—
The loving—and the dreaming—and the laughter.
Ah, ships that vanish take what never after
Returning ships may carry.
Dawn shall flare,
Make bloom the terraced gardens of the air
For all the world but Lucius. He shall see