Where art thou, where?—no speck upon the blue
My vision marks, from whence thy music ranges.
And why this hour—this voiceless hour is thine—
And thine alone, I cannot tell. Perchance,
While all is hushed and silent but the heart,
E’en thou hast human sympathies for heaven,
And singest yonder in the holy deep
Because thou hast a pinion. If it be,
O for a wing, upon the aerial tide
To sail with thee, a minstrel mariner!