Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth

, when,

sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements,

opening on the foam

Of perilous seas,

in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn!

the very word is like a bell

and I have ears in vain--

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!