One thing the hand of Time shall spare,
For the grim Idiot at the gate
Is deathless and eternal there.
[THE SONG SPARROW]
Fair little scout, that when the iron year
Changes, and the first fleecy clouds deploy,
Comest with such a sudden burst of joy,
Lifting on winter's doomed and broken rear
That song of silvery triumph blithe and clear;
Not yet quite conscious of the happy glow,