I.
Trillets of humor, — shrewdest whistle-wit, —
Contralto cadences of grave desire
Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre
Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split
About the slim young widow who doth sit
And sing above, — midnights of tone entire, —
Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire; —
Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite
Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave
And trickling down the beak, — discourses brave
Of serious matter that no man may guess, —
Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress —
All these but now within the house we heard:
O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird?