Of green, and gold, and purple, came and stirred
An olive’s foliage with its flutterings;
Where, perching on a slender flexile bough,
It stayed its flight and furled its weary wings.
Voiceless awhile, against a dark green spray
It leaned its breast; then making prelude low,
From its dim throat poured out a lengthened flow
Of moist Memnonian melody—a lay
More soft and sweet than ancient Pan could play
Through all the wild Circean realm of sound,