Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.