Till heavy grows the burden of a song;
O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day,
My feet are weary of their frequent way,
The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say.
"If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around,
My head with a sad slumber will be bound,
And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground.
"Remember that I am not yet divine,
Long years of service to the fatal Nine
Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine.