The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | ||
IV.
[There was a little bird upon that pile]
There was a little bird upon that pile;It perched upon a ruined pinnacle,
And made sweet melody.
The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear,
For other note none swelled the air but his.
It seemed as if the little chorister,
Sole tenant of the melancholy pile,
Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind,
Yet withal cheerful. I have heard the note
Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn,
— Much musing —
The poetical works of Henry Kirke White | ||