CXXI

Does not the round in which my numbers plod,
These same few changes, wrung from fewer strings,
This endless iteration of stale things,
Begin to make thy wearied forehead nod?
Sometimes I fancy that the grassy sod,
Which quivers with the nested skylark's wings,
A fresher music to the morning flings
Than all the ways my laboring muse has trod.
And yet from me the voice of nature cries,
Halting and stammering on from note to note,
As truly, plainly as from any throat.
Ah! feathered rival, if thy song could rise
From my deep passion, what a strain would float
Among the jealous singers of the skies!