Classic Poem

A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
Unchanged in a note!

— But it's not the selfsame bird. —
No: perished to dust is he. . . .
As also are those who heard
That song with me.