by Thomas Hardy
A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.
A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
unchanged in a note!
-But its not the selfsame bird.-
No: perished to dust is he….
As also are those who heard
That song with me.
Last updated January 14, 2019