A swan that sings its broken life away.
In that brief hour, ’tis writ, you shall hear breathe
Songs blown from some enchanted island home,
Then mourn for evermore life’s silent throats,—
Aye, seek and find the altar when its fires
Are ashes, and the worship vain regret!
A mystic law more strong than all delight
Or pain shall each delicious rapture chill,
Exacting sternly for each ecstasy;
And when her voice enwraps you and in arms