XLVI. Heart not so heavy as mine, Wending late home, As it passed my window Whistled itself a tune, -- A careless snatch, a ballad, A ditty of the street; Yet to my irritated ear An anodyne so sweet, It was as if a bobolink, Sauntering this way, Carolled and mused and carolled, Then bubbled slow away. It was as if a chirping brook Upon a toilsome way Set bleeding feet to minuets Without the knowing why. To-morrow, night will come again, Weary, perhaps, and sore. Ah, bugle, by my window, I pray you stroll once more!
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