Passing, passing--ah! sad heart, sing;
But you cannot keep me beyond to-day,
For I am a wayward bird on the wing--
A wayward waif, who will never stay.
The ivory morn, and the primrose eve,
And the twilight, whispering late and low,
They kiss the hem of the spell I weave;
They tremble, and ask me where I go.
Passing, passing--ah! sweet soul, sigh;
But you cannot keep me beyond to-night,
For I am a wilful wanderer by--
A wilful waif on a fanciful flight.
The shadowy moon, and the crimson star,
And the wind that steals from the Western wave,
They watch the ways where my wild wings are;
They murmur and marvel what I crave.
Passing, passing--ah! passion glow;
But you cannot light me a lasting flame,
By which I may linger, linger and know
My spark and yours from one furnace came.
You whisper and weep, and your words are tears,
And your tears are words I remember yet;
But the flame dies down with the dying years,
And nothing lives that forgets to forget.
Passing, passing--ah! whither? Why?
Does the heart know why? Can the soul say where?
I pass, but I pause to catch ev'ry cry,
To watch ev'ry face, be it foul or fair.
I must hear all the notes of the nightingales--
Do they sing to a God or to graven things--
And not till the last faint flute-note fails
Will I stay my flight, will I fold my wings.