A SONG.

Bring me the juice of the honey fruit, The large translucent, amber-hued, Rare grapes of southern isles, to suit The luxury that fills my mood. And bring me only such as grew Where rarest maidens tent the bowers, And only fed by rain and dew Which first had bathed a bank of flowers. They must have hung on spicy trees In airs of far enchanted vales, And all night heard the ecstasies Of noble-throated nightingales: So that the virtues which belong To flowers may therein tasted be— And that which hath been thrilled with song May give a thrill of song to me. For I would wake that string for thee Which hath too long in silence hung, And sweeter than all else should be The song which in thy praise is sung.