From "Wild Thorn And Lily" Among The White Haw-Blossoms, Where The Creek Droned Under Drifts Of Dogwood And Of Haw, The Redbird, Like A Crimson Blossom Blown Against The Snow-White Bosom Of The Spring, The Chaste Confusion Of Her Lawny Breast, Sang On, Prophetic Of Serener Days, As Confident As June'S Completer Hours. And I Stood Listening Like A Hind, Who Hears A Wood Nymph Breathing In A Forest Flute Among The Beech-Boles Of Myth-Haunted Ways: And When It Ceased, The Memory Of The Air Blew Like A Syrinx In My Brain: I Made A Lyric Of The Notes That Men Might Know: He Flies With Flirt And Fluting As Flies A Crimson Star From Flaming Star-Beds Shooting From Where The Roses Are. Wings Past And Sings; And Seven Notes, Wild As Fragrance Is, That Turn To Flame In Heaven, Float Round Him Full Of Bliss. He Sings; Each Burning Feather Thrills, Throbbing At His Throat; A Song Of Firefly Weather, And Of A Glowworm Boat: Of Elfland And A Princess Who, Born Of A Perfume, His Music Rocks, Where Winces That Rosebud'S Cradled Bloom. No Bird Sings Half So Airy, No Bird Of Dusk Or Dawn, Thou Masking King Of Faery! Thou Red-Crowned Oberon!