Where passion grows to be a changeless thing,
Like charmed apples made of chrysoprase,
Or chrysoberyl, or beryl, or chrysolite;
And there, in juggleries of sight and sense,
Become one movement, energy, delight,
Until the overburthened moon is dead.
[A number of SAILORS enter hurriedly.]
FIRST SAILOR.
Look there! there in the mist! a ship of spice!
And we are almost on her!