Page:The Seaside and the Fireside.djvu/86

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By the Fireside.
O, say not so!Those sounds that flowIn murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds.
They are the throngsOf the poet's songs,Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words.
This is the cryOf souls, that highOn toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime.
From their distant flightThrough realms of lightIt falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme.
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