The Selfsame Song

A BIRD bills the selfsame song,With never a fault in its flow,That we listened to here those longLong years ago.

A pleasing marvel is howA strain of such rapturous roteShould have gone on thus till nowUnchanged in a note!

—But it's not the selfsame bird.—No: perished to dust is he. . . .As also are those who heardThat song with me.