And fling a cloud of incense, and bright flow’rs
Upon their lingering pinions. No young fruits
Lie in their curtain’d cradles, rocking soft
To the glad lullaby which smiling Hope
Sings round the fragrant clusters. No young birds
Lie chirping in their nests amongst green leaves.
No passing streamlet lingers in the bow’rs,
Forgetting, for a while, its morning hymn,
To touch the rich lip of the fragile flower
That lives upon its love one summer day,