All down the years the fragrance came,
The mingled fragrance, with a flame,
Of Cedars breathing in the sun,
The Cedar-trees of Lebanon.
O thirst of song in bitter air,
And hope, wing-hurt from iron care,
What balm of myrrh and honey, won
From far-off trees of Lebanon!
Not from these eyelids yet, have I
Ever beheld that early sky.
Why do they call me through the sun?—
Even the trees of Lebanon?