Soft as a flash of summer light,
A thrill of music sweet
Breathed somewhat in the ear of Night,
And died along the street.

Grey Night, it said, from amorous tongue,
From minstrel, and from bird,
Since first thy heaven with stars was hung
What carols thou hast heard!

If only we could call the ghost
Of each forgotten strain!
If all the silver-sounding host
Made melody again!

If every song whose magic made
Yon stars more deeply burn,
Then fled and withered like a shade,
Could like a shade return!

I who would bid the Lovely stay,
I who would bind the Fair;
Even as I plead I pass away,
And go I know not where.