In A Museum

 I

Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light, 
Which over the earth before man came was winging; 
There's a contralto voice I heard last night, 
That lodges with me still in its sweet singing.


II

Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird 
Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending 
Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard, 
In the full-fuged song of the universe unending.

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