Gums the most precious, and
Balms of the sweetest,
Spices and odours, he
Weaves in the nest.

There, in that sun-ark, lo,
Waiteth he wistful;
Summer comes smiling, lo,
Rays smite the pile!

Burden'd with eld-years, and
Weary with slow time,
Slow in his odour-nest
Burneth the bird.

Up from those ashes, then,
Springeth a rare fruit;
Deep in the rare fruit
There coileth a worm.

Weaving bliss-meshes
Around and around it,
Silent and blissful, the
Worm worketh on.

Lo, from the airy web,
Blooming and brightsome,
Young and exulting, the
Phoenix breaks forth.