Page:The Wild Swans at Coole.djvu/49

 Rh There's nothing of him left but half a score Of sorrowful, austere, sweet, lofty pipe tunes.

You have put the thought in rhyme.

I worked all day And when 'twas done so little had I done That maybe 'I am sorry' in plain prose Had sounded better to your mountain fancy [He sings. 'Like the speckled bird that steers Thousands of leagues oversea, And runs or a while half-flies Upon his yellow legs through our meadows,