ON HEARING A BIRD SING AT NIGHT

Out of what ancient summer of soft airs

Was spun this song that stills each listening leaf —

This silver, moon-bright minstreling that fares

Through all old time, still laden with a grief?

Some hidden bird, by turrets and black bars,

Where one had languished for her face was fair,

Heard thus some troubadour beneath the stars,

And learned this song of vanished hands and hair.

Who knows what golden story first gave birth

To this old music that is heavy-sweet

With gardens long forgotten of the earth,

With passion that was silver wings and feet,

To cross the silent centuries and be heard,

Calling again in this dream-troubled bird!