Sonnet.
There be some songs that, whosoever singeth,1
They fall in measured cadence on the ear ;2
And soft and slow their music ever ringeth3
Adown the weary waning of the year.4
All may not think their strains divinest rapture,5
But unto us their faintest echo seems6
Like unto those that all our senses capture,7
Heard in the fairy realms of sweetest dreams ;8
And the spell lies in touch of mem’ry’s fingers9
That wake within our hearts some answering note—10
A note whose blessèd sweetness ever lingers11
Like the dear sounds from some rare song-bird’s throat ;12
A lingering note that, from the past, doth borrow13
Something of long-gone joy or half-sweet sorrow.14