L'Envoi

Essayest thou, poet of a long-past morn,
A new forth-pouring of song's waves to try,
Song's wither'd blooms to fanes again to tie?
Time was when from thy thoughts these waves seem'd borne,
Sunlit and strong, magnificently torn,
Their very fall a flash of victory;
Time was thy flowers seem'd flush'd as by the sky,—
To thee, perchance to others, now a scorn;
Two or three fibrous skeleton-leaves, with story
Of some sweet summer-days and things that died;
Two or three bubbles for the big-brimm'd brine,
Two or three yellow foam-flakes for the glory.
What if the flowers should breathe again, the tide
Tumble sonorous on a strand divine?