Nearing home, he speaks.

True, true!— Perhaps it would be best

To be that star within the west;

Above the earth, within the skies,

Yet shining in your own blue eyes.

Or, haply, better here to blow

A flower beneath your window low;

That, brief of life and frail and fair,

Finds yet a heaven in your hair.

Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze

That sighs its soul out to the trees;

A voice, a breath of rain or drouth,

That has its wild will with your mouth.

These thing I long to be. I long

To be the burthen of some song

You love to sing; a melody,

Sure of sweet immortality.