 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
IN A MUSEUM
I
Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light,Which over the earth before man came was winging;
There's a contralto voice I heard last night,
That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.
II
Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient birdHas perished not, but is blent, or will be blending
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard,
In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.
Exeter.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |