The almond shaking in the sun On some high place ere day begin, Where winds of myrrh and cinnamon Between the tossing plumes have been, It called before her, and its kin The fragrant savage balaustine Grown from the ruined ravelin That tawny leopards couch them in; But this, if rolling in from seas It only caught the salt-fumed breeze, Would have a grace they might not win.