Sleepless! He never sleeps

 That I can find.

 I marvel how he keeps

 A bit of his mind.

 There is neither sight nor sound

 In the world of sense,

 But he has fathomed and found

 In the silvery tense

62

 Keen cords on the amber wood.

 As he wrings them thence,

 Death smiles at his hardihood

 For recompense.

 Oh fair they are, so fair!

 No tongue can tell

 How he sets them chiming there

 Clear as a bell.

 An orchard of birds in June,

 The winds that stream,

 The cold sea-brooks that croon,

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