Chapter 8 No.8

Alas, but though my flying song flies after,

O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet

Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet,

Some dim derision of mysterious laughter

From the blind tongueless warders of the dead,

Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veiled head,

Some little sound of unregarded tears

Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes,

And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-

These only, these the hearkening spirit hears,

Sees only such things rise.