I know his note, his lay, His colour and his morning-rose, And I confess his day.
My window waits; at dawn I hark His call; at morn I meet His haste around the tossing park And down the softened street; The gentler light is his: the dark, The grey -- he turns it sweet.
So too, so too, do I confess My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess With his immortal things.
I feel, I know, him. On I press -- He finds me 'twixt his wings.
End of title
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