Changed
Then piping choirs shrilled high, as now;
But hushed is the sylvan flute
Of the nightingale that dreamed on the bough,
And a tenderer music is mute.
But hushed is the sylvan flute
Of the nightingale that dreamed on the bough,
And a tenderer music is mute.
'Tis the same save that, and yet all is strange,
As the soul of the night were fled;
Yes, I look and look, but can see no change,
Except that my world is dead.
As the soul of the night were fled;
Yes, I look and look, but can see no change,
Except that my world is dead.
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