Where wings to rustle use,
But this poor tarrier—
Searching my spirit’s eaves—
Find I for carrier.
Ah! bring them back to me
Swiftly, sweet comer!
Swift, swift, and bring with you
Song’s Indian summer!
_Seraphim_,
_Her to hymn_,
_Might leave their portals_;
_And at my feet learn_
_The harping of mortals_!