And as she finished singing,
She bowed her golden head
Low, O low, on her shaking bosom,
And, ending her song, she said:
"Three songs in my spirit:
Elusive, tremulous, light.
You have felt their tremor;
This gift is spended aright."
The nightingale lifted her voice up,
The moon fled out of the skies,
The fig-tree split, and two tears rolled
Out of the great stag's eyes.
Now, when she had done singing,
She closed her eyes, and her breath
Went out as she lay down backward
And folded her hands in death.
Lyme Regis,
July 6, 1916.