Death is like moonlight in a lofty wood,
That pours pale magic through the shadowy leaves;
‘T is like the web that some old perfume weaves
In a dim, lonely room where memories brood; ...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.