For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.