Songs of the Spirit

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 107