I will not let thee go. / Had not the great sun seen, I might; / Or were he reckoned slow / To bring the false to light, / Then might I let thee go.

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Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, / Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West.

The hill pines were sighing, / O'ercast and chill was the day: / A mist in the valley lying / Blotted the pleasant May.

The day begins to droop, - / Its course is done: / But nothing tells the place / Of the setting sun.

I know that if odour were visible, as colour is, I'd see the summer garden in rainbow clouds.