(Such was that Iris-feathered warbler’s name)
Was stilled forever. Him within the beak
Of a relentless vulture dead I saw,
That, swooping from the clouds, his descant sweet
Had hushed to silence, to appease the maw
Of famine in his eyrie on the steep.
THE CEMETERY IN SUMMER.
The west wind in the piny bough
A low eternal threne