Coiner of coins that must rust and pass,—

Knowing the end is—alas, and alas!

What may a poet sing?

"Sing of the dust that is blossomy boughs,

Dust that is more than your thought allows;

Sing you for ever impossible vows

Unto the springs to be.

"Dust in the dust is for fire and birth,

Beauty and passion and red-lipped mirth,

Fashioned of dust for the blossoming earth,—

Even of you and me."

[28]

[28]

JEWELS

The sea has worn her ships like precious stones,

That marked her bosom's tremulous unrest;

And for their loss no pendant moon atones

That rides eternally upon her breast.

For sunk armadas or a little boat

She still is wistful as a jewelled queen,

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