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 bough,
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 harmonies, --
And something abides, and something floats,
In the song 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!