Shapes of Clay

We heard a song-bird trilling—

'T was but a night ago.

Such rapture he was rilling

As only we could know.

This morning he is flinging

His music from the tree,

But something in the singing

Is not the same to me.

His inspiration fails him,

Or he has lost his skill.

Nanine, Nanine, what ails him

That he should sing so ill?

Nanine is not replying—

She hears no earthly song.

The sun and bird are lying

And the night is, O, so long!