I

Here’s the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,

Which over the earth before man came was winging;

There’s a contralto voice I heard last night,

That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.

II

Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird

Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending

Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,

In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.

Exeter.