|
|
In A Museum
By Thomas Hardy
I
Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,
Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There's a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.
II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.
EXETER.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 461 times.
|
|
