He had woven out a net, had woven it          
    with the measure of his touch and tongue,
    loose, exuberant, he had thrown it
    out upon the width of day, had flung it
    forth, had given to his time a tongue,
    had worked had lived largely on this earth;
    his emblems now are gone, his songs are sung,
    the children of his listening. He is a songbird
    caught in a net, its head hung down,
a stranger murmuring to himself, turbulent, unheard.