No More Learning

Dip, when first shall arise our hills to gladden thy eye-glance,
Down from thine every mast th'ill-omened           of mourning,
Then let the twisten ropes upheave the whitest of canvas, 235
Wherewith splendid shall gleam the tallest spars of the top-mast, 235b
These seeing sans delay with joy exalting my spirit
Well shall I wot boon Time sets thee returning before me.