I WALKED an autumn lane, and ne'er a tune
Besieged mine ear from hedge or ground or tree;
The summer minstrels all had fared from me
Far southward, since the snows must flock so soon.
And yet the air seemed vibrant with the croon
Of unseen birds and words of Maytide glee:
The very silence was a melody
Sown thick with memoried cadences of June.

Shall we not hold that when our little day
Is done, and we are seen of men no more,
We still live on in some such subtile way,
To make mere silence vocal by some shore
Of Recollection, or to inly play
Soft songs on hearts that loved us, long before?