Page:Poems and ballads, third series (IA poemsballadsthir00swin).pdf/81

 Grey time, in time's grey fashion, Bids wingless creatures pine: We are fallen, even we, whose passion On earth is nearest thine.

The lark knows no such rapture, Such joy no nightingale, As sways the songless measure Wherein thy wings take pleasure: Thy love may no man capture, Thy pride may no man quail; The lark knows no such rapture, Such joy no nightingale.

And we, whom dreams embolden, We can but creep and sing And watch through heaven's waste hollow The flight no sight may follow