Iv

Even while I muse thy halting-place doth shift, Now nearer, now more distant--I have seen When April, through her shining hair adrift, Gleams a farewell, and elms are fledged with green, The voiceful, wandering envoy of the Spring; Thee, never; though the mower’s scythe hath dashed Thy nest aside, but thou hast sped askant, Viewless; then last we lose thee, and thy wing Brushes Nilotic maize and thou dost chaunt Haply all night to stony ears of Pasht.