Deathly colds,
Fall on us while we hear, and countermand
Our sanguine heart back from the fancy land
With nightingales in visionary worlds.
We murmur “Where is any certain tune
Or measured music in such notes as these ? “
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded their fine ear hath won
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper–
Sweet!
