To the air and clouds that build the dead night's pyre?

O thou of divers-coloured mind, O thou

Deathless, God's daughter subtle-souled—lo, now,

Now too the song above all songs, in flight

Higher than the day-star's height,

And sweet as sound the moving wings of night!

Thou of the divers-coloured seat—behold,

Her very song of old!—

O deathless, O God's daughter subtle-souled!

That same cry through this boskage overhead

Rings round reiterated,

Palpitates as the last palpitated,

The last that panted through her lips and died

Not down this grey north sea's half sapped cliff-side

That crumbles toward the coastline, year by year

More near the sands and near;

The last loud lyric fiery cry she cried,

Heard once on heights Leucadian,—heard not here.

Not here; for this that fires our northland night,

This is the song that made

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