Dead stars in the season of sighing, 
Lost worlds of unspeakable pain, 
White winds in the winter-tide dying, 
Or pestilence risen from rain ; 
So thoughts are that perish for lying and rise not 
again. 
 
Blue waves in the summer uncrested, 
New homes for the fair and the free, 
Bright breezes in forest-leaves nested, 
Sweet birds in the flowering tree ; 
So thoughts that by truth have been tested sing 
down to the sea. 
 
But weak as the flowers of summer 
Are the flowers that float on my stream ; 
My song-birds to others are dumber 
Than voices half heard in a dream ; 
My muse, louder gods overcome her, the eyes of 
them gleam. 
 
The sorrow that woke me to singing 
Is deeper than songs that I sing ; 
The birds that fresh music are bringing
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