With breast and wing,
All quivering
With life and love, could only sing.

"My head was leant
Where, with it, blent
A maiden's, o'er her instrument:
While all the night,
From vale to height,
Was filled with echoes of delight.

"And all our dreams
Were lit with gleams
Of that lost land of reedy streams,
Along whose brim
Forever swim
Pan's lilies, laughing up at him."

And still the inspired singer held rapt sway.


"It is wonderful!" I whispered, under breath.

"Of course it is!" answered my friend. "But
listen; there is more:"

"But yesterday! . . . .
O blooms of May,
And summer roses-where away?
O stars above;