Yes, I have died ere this a thousand times;
For on the dusky borderlands of dream
Thro’ the dim twilight of dear summer dawns
So darkly gold, before the hurrying hooves
Of Apollonian pearl throbbed down the wind,
Hearing the Lesbian birds amid green boughs
Where tree and hill and town were touched with fire,
—Hearing, yet hearing not, thro’ all the thin
Near multitudinous lament of Dawn’s
Low-rustling leaves, stirred by some opal wing,—