My heart, i cannot still it, nest that had song-birds in it; and when the last shall go, the dreary days, to fill it, instead of lark or linnet, shall whirl dead leaves and snow. had they been swallows only, without the passion stronger that skyward longs and sings,— woe’s me, i shall be lonely when i can feel no longer the impatience of their wings! a moment, sweet delusion, like birds the brown leaves hover; but it will not be long before their wild confusion fall wavering down to cover the poet and his song. how many lines are in each stanza?