Chapter I
Trillets of humor,—shrewdest whistle-wit,—Contralto cadences of grave desireSuch as from off the passionate Indian pyreDrift down through sandal-odored flames that splitAbout the slim young widow who doth sitAnd sing above,—midnights of tone entire,—Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire;—Bright drops of tune, from oceans infiniteOf melody, sipped off the thin-edged waveAnd trickling down the beak,—discourses braveOf serious matter that no man may guess,—Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress—All these but now within the house we heard:O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird?