They have no song, the sedges dry,
And still they sing.
It is within my breast they sing,
As I pass by.
Within my breast they touch a string,
They wake a sigh.
There is but sound of sedges dry;
In me they sing.
More verses by George Meredith
- The Emperor Frederick Of Our Time
- On Hearing The News From Venice
- Song--Spring
- Melampus
- The Nuptials Of Attila