Wherein to weave a palace for his young;
He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,
His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.
O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,
Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.
The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,
Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,
Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,
Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.