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 ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".

A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.