Sedges, have you sung too much,

Sedges gray along the shore?

Can this autumn tempest touch

Answering chords in you no more?

Is the summer all forgot?—

Now the ice is dark and strong

That has bound you to the spot—

Did you die of too much song?

Something in me is a harp

Played by every wanton breeze.

Moaning soft and piping sharp

Are its wondrous melodies.

Is the playing over-fast

Though the answer now is strong?

Like the sedges at the last

Will it die of too much song?