Page:Studies in Song - Swinburne (1880).djvu/224

 The flowers, overflowing, overcrowded, Are drunk with the mad wind's mirth: The delight of thy coming unclouded Makes music of earth.

I, last least voice of her voices, Give thanks that were mute in me long To the soul in my soul that rejoices For the song that is over my song. Time gives what he gains for the giving Or takes for his tribute of me; My dreams to the wind everliving, My song to the sea.