 Little bird, sing me a sweet song deep
         Of what is not to‑day;
 Be it not the future that yet doth sleep
 In the hall where Time his hours doth keep,
         More than far awa
 Sing me a song of the things thou knew'st
         And desirest e'er,
 Be it a song to which but is used
 The heart that has to love refused
         What is merely fai
 Bird