“And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
“O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial faëry place,
That is fit home for thee!”
I have a great book, published by the Government, devoted entirely to birds’ gizzards, mills of the gods, and their grindings. It is not a dull book, though the mills grind slowly and grind exceeding small. It is a book of bones, of broken beetles, seeds, hairs, feathers, and fragments. It is a great work of science. One might not like to lay it down unfinished; but, having finished it, one could hardly say:
“And I can listen to thee yet;