Though leaves have fallen long since, br The wagtails flirt and flit, br Glad in the morning sun; br While, on the knotted quince, br The dewdrops, pearled on it, br Bead to a little run. . . . br br Soft as a breathing air br There came a lovely sound br Out of the branches bare; br So rich it was, and round, br Sense stood, in listening bound, br Stilled to its sweetness there! br It was the thrush's note, br br That seemed as though his heart br On some loved thing did dote; br As though he yearned apart, br Knowing some hidden smart, br Pain in the long sweet rote. br br There, as the spider hung br Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown br Skin of the quince, he sung br A song that o'er the town, br Rose up as though to crown br The tree-tops whence it sprung. br br And now, it seems to me, br That long full breath he drew, br Like perfume shed on air, br Still dwells within the tree, br Though long ago he flew, br And left it naked there.