The coming musk-rose full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves....
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The Voice I heard this passing Night was heard
In ancient days by Emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath