Comes that sad voice, O poet, from your heart?—
That austere voice that vibrates on the strings
Of your sweet lyre, and into blithe song brings
Notes solemn, as if Christian chants should start
Into wierd concord with the notes that dart
From Pluto's bride in exile when she sings
Of woodland days, when near her mother's springs,
To Syrinx-music, she bade care depart:
In all your songs the birds and trees are heard,
But through your singing sounds an undertone—
Wind-message through the reeds, not sung, but sighed:—
Your heart sings like a silver throated bird,
Your soul, remembering, sea-like, makes its moan,
Not for dead gods, but that the Christ has died.