The moan of a wintry soul
     Melted into a summer song,
    And the words, like the wavelet's roll,
     Moved murmuringly along.

    And the song flowed far and away,
     Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill --
    Each wave of it lit by a ray --
     But the sound was so soft and so still,

    And the tone was so gentle and low,
     None heard the song till it had passed;
    Till the echo that followed its flow
     Came dreamingly back from the past.

    'Twas too late! -- a song never returns
     That passes our pathway unheard;
    As dust lying dreaming in urns
     Is the song lying dead in a word.

    For the birds of the skies have a nest,
     And the winds have a home where they sleep,
    And songs, like our souls, need a rest,
     Where they murmur the while we may weep.

         *    *    *    *    *

    But songs -- like the birds o'er the foam,
     Where the storm wind is beating their breast,
    Fly shoreward -- and oft find a home
     In the shelter of words where they rest.

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