can fill our souls

with such a wistful joy as this:

nor, bird, so sweet

was ever a swallow note—

not hers, so perfect

with the wing of lazuli

and bright breast—

nor yet the oriole

filling with melody

from her fiery throat

some island-orchard

in a purple sea.

[26]

Ah dear, ah gentle bird,

you spread warm length

of crimson wool

and tinted woven stuff

for us to rest upon,

nor numb with ecstasy

nor drown with death:

 Prev. P 36/71 next