He fills the world with his singing, 
High notes of the heavenly morn 
For ever and ever ringing 
As age after age is born. 

And then he is still, and we know not 
Whither his thoughts have fled ; 
Only the clear notes flow not, 
And we say, the singer is dead. 

But the nightingales that he cherished, 
They carol and cannot die ; 
Though the man whom we loved hath perished, 
His melody throbs for aye.