Nearing home, he speaks.

True, true!—Perhaps it would be best To be that star within the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet shining in your own blue eyes.

Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair.

Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth.

These thing I long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality.