Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/32

   As if all would drink at once,
   Where the living water runs!
   Of the fishes' golden edges
   Flashing in and out the sedges:
   Of the swans on silver thrones,
   Floating down the winding streams,
   With impassive eyes turned shoreward,
   And a chant of undertones,—
   And the lotos leaning forward
   To help them into dreams.
     Fare ye well, farewell!
  The river-sounds, no longer audible,
     Expire at Eden's door!
     Each footstep of your treading
  Treads out some murmur which ye heard before
     Farewell! the streams of Eden,
     Ye shall hear nevermore.

Bird-Spirit.
   I am the nearest nightingale
   That singeth in Eden after you;
   And I am singing loud and true,
   And sweet,—I do not fail!
   I sit upon a cypress-bough,
   Close to the gate; and I fling my song
   Over the gate and through the mail
   Of the warden angels marshalled strong,—
     Over the gate and after you!
   And the warden angels let it pass,
   Because the poor brown bird, alas!
    Sings in the garden, sweet and true.
   And I build my song of high pure notes,
    Note over note, height over height,
    Till I strike the arch of the Infinite;
   And I bridge abysmal agonies
   With strong, clear calms of harmonies,—
   And something abides, and something floats,
   In the song which I sing after you: