The Phœnix

There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,
He flies tow’rd the east,
Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,
Where the spices so fragrant are growing,
And palms are waving and wells are cooling--
And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singeth
She loves him, she loves him!
His image she bears in her little bosom,
And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,
Nor knows it herself!
But in her vision, before her he stands,
She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,
And calls on his name,
And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,
And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement--
She loves him! she loves him!