But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
Science grows and Beauty dwindles.
And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.