ONE bird, that ever with the wakening spring Was wont to sing, I wait, through all my woodlands, far and near, In vain to hear. The voice of many waters, silent long Breaks forth in song; Young breezes to the listening leaves outpour Their heavenly lore: A thousand other winged warblers sweet, Returning, greet Their fellows, and rebuild upon my breast The wonted nest. But unto me one fond familiar strain Comes not again -- A breath whose faintest echo, farthest heard, A mountain stirred. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ALLEY. AN IMITATION OF SPENSER by ALEXANDER POPE TO JANE: THE INVITATION by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH HILL MAN'S BURIAL by LILLIAN M. (PETTES) AINSWORTH THE TIMELY MEMENTO by PHILIP AYRES |