But, Song, arise thee on a greater wing, Nor twitter robin-like of love, nor sing A pretty dalliance with grief--but try Some metre like a sky, Wherein to set Stars that may linger yet When I, thy master, shall have come to die. Twitter and tweet Thy carollings Of little things, Of fair and sweet; For it is meet, O robin red! That little theme Hath little song, That little head Hath little dream, And long. But we have starry business, such a grief As Autumn's, dead by some forgotten sheaf, While all the distance echoes of the wain; Grief as an ocean's for some sudden isle Of living green that stayed with it a while, Then to oblivious deluge plunged again! Grief as of Alps that yearn but never reach, Grief as of Death for Life, of Night for Day: Such grief, O Song, how hast thou strength to teach, How hope to make assay? IV ONCE Once we met, and then there came Like a Pentecostal flame, A word; And I said not, Only thought, She heard! All I never say but sing, Worshipping; Wrapt in the hidden tongue Of an ambiguous song. How we met what need to say? When or where, Years ago or yesterday, Here or there. All the song is--once we met, She and I; Once, but never to forget, Till we die. All the song is that we meet Never now-- 'Hast thou yet forgotten, sweet?' 'Love, hast thou?' V THE DAY OF THE TWO DAFFODILS 'The daffodils are fine this year,' I said; 'O yes, but see my crocuses,' said she. And so we entered in and sat at talk Within a little parlour bowered about With garden-noises, filled with garden scent, As some sweet sea-shell rings with pearly chimes And sighs out fragrance of its mother's breast.