Chapter I

Trillets of humor,--shrewdest whistle-wit,--
Contralto cadences of grave desire
Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre
Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split
About the slim young widow who doth sit
And sing above,--midnights of tone entire,--
Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire;--
Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite
Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave
And trickling down the beak,--discourses brave
Of serious matter that no man may guess,--
Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress--
All these but now within the house we heard:
O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird?