ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
Treads out some murmur which ye heard before. Farewell ' the streams of Eden Ye shall hear nevermore!
��Bwd-sfirit
I am the nearest nightingale
That singeth in Eden after you;
And I am singing loud and true,
And sweet, I do not fail.
I sit upon a cypress hough,
Close to the gate, and I fling my song
Over the gate and through the mail
Of the warden angels marshall'd strong,
Over the gate and after you' And the warden angels let it pass, Because the poor brown bird, alas,
Sings in the garden, sweet and true. And I build my song of high pure notes,
Note over note, height over height,
Till I strike the arch of the Infinite, And I bridge abysmal agonies With strong, clear calms of harmonics, And something abides, and something floats, In the bong which I sing after you.
Fare ye well, farewell' The creature-sounds, no longer audible,
Expire at Eden's door.
Each footstep of your treading Treads out some cadence which ye heard before.
Farewell ' the birds of Eden
Ye shall hear nevermore!
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