Of fine honey-dew which falleth often
In the middle of night; the noble fowl
Thus feedeth and groweth till he flieth again
To his own domain, to his ancient dwelling.
IV
265 When the bird springs reborn from its bower of herbs,
Proud of pinion, pleased with new life,
Young and full of grace, from the ground he then
Skillfully piles up the scattered parts
Of the graceful body, gathers the bones,