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?