Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath
  Of this warm seawind ripeneth,
  Arching the billow in his sleep;
  But the land-wind wandereth,
  Broken by the highland-steep,
  Two streams upon the violet deep: 
  For the western sun and the western star,
  And the low west wind, breathing afar,
  The end of day and beginning of night
  Make the apple holy and bright,
  Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,
  Mellowed in a land of rest;
  Watch it warily day and night;
  All good things are in the west,
  Till midnoon the cool east light
  Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow;
  But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly
  Stays on the flowering arch of the bough,
  The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,
  Goldenkernelled, goldencored,
  Sunset ripened, above on the tree,
  The world is wasted with fire and sword,
  But the apple of gold hangs over the sea,
  Five links, a golden chain, are we,
  Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,
      Daughters three,
      Bound about
      All round about
  The gnarled bole of the charmed tree,
  The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,
  Guard it well, guard it warily,
      Watch it warily,
      Singing airily,
  Standing about the charmed root.

XXXIII

=Rosalind=

    My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
  Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,
  Is one of those who know no strife
  Of inward woe or outward fear;
  To whom the slope and stream of life,
  The life before, the life behind,
  In the ear, from far and near,
  Chimeth musically clear. 
  My falconhearted Rosalind
  Fullsailed before a vigorous wind,
  Is one of those who cannot weep
  For others’ woes, but overleap
  All the petty shocks and fears
  That trouble life in early years,
  With a flash of frolic scorn
  And keen delight, that never falls
  Away from freshness, self-upborne
  With such gladness, as, whenever
  The freshflushing springtime calls
  To the flooding waters cool,
  Young fishes, on an April morn,
  Up and down a rapid river,
  Leap the little waterfalls
  That sing into the pebbled pool. 
  My happy falcon, Rosalind,
  Hath daring fancies of her own,
  Fresh as the dawn before the day,
  Fresh as the early seasmell blown
  Through vineyards from an inland bay. 
  My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
  Because no shadow on you falls,
  Think you hearts are tennis balls
  To play with, wanton Rosalind?

XXXIV

=Song=

  Who can say
  Why To-day
  To-morrow will be yesterday? 
  Who can tell
  Why to smell
  The violet, recalls the dewy prime
  Of youth and buried time? 
  The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.