In a museum 

                                    I

Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light

Which over the earth before man came was winging; 

There's a contralto voice I heard last night, 

That lodges in me still with its sweet singing. 

                                    II

Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird

Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending

Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard, 

In the full-fugued song of the universe unending. 

Exeter.

Thomas Hardy, Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses