The wind on the lyre

That was the chirp of Ariel

You heard, as overhead it flew,

The farther going more to dwell

And wing our green to wed our blue;

But whether note of joy, or knell,

Not his own Father-singer knew;

Nor yet can any mortal tell,

Save only how it shivers through;

The breast of us a sounded shell,

The blood of us a lighted dew.