Yours is the bird of heavenliest wing
Whose sunward flight beyond my following towers
And leaves me with an impotent harp unstrung.
And yet the shadow of my song for you
Falls on my heart forever as a dew,
Or the dim-breathing soul of evening flowers
That love the delicate light of stars still young.
These lesser songs that all who listen may hear
Shall we call yours for a day, most dear, most dear?—
Knowing there is one other, only ours,