Thou mindest not; for hark!--again
Resounds thy racket
Shriller than before;
Singst thou this sad strain
As if befitting to thy ebon jacket,
With carvings curious,
And a color glossy,
Like old wine--
Tiny thing, be not so furious
And uneedful noisy;
Cease to pine
For something fled--for joys or hopes departed,
Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,
O mourner most divine.