There is a memory stays upon old ships,
A weightless cargo in the musty hold,-
Of bright lagoons and prow-caressing lips,
Of stormy midnights,-and a tale untold. ...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.