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In Memoriam A.H.H.
Wild
bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
Rings Eden thro’ the budded quicks,
O tell me where the senses mix,
O
tell me where the passions meet,
Whence
radiate: fierce extremes employ
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,
And in the midmost heart of grief
Thy
passion clasps a secret joy:
And
I–my harp would prelude woe–
I cannot all command the strings;
The glory of the sum of things
Will
flash along the chords and go.
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