University of Virginia Library

Oriole on the willow-tree!
Singing such melodious measures,
Singest thou of summer pleasures,—
Crimson fields of honeyed clover,
Sweet to smell in flying over,
Nests on breezy branches swinging,
Carols in the soft air ringing,
Bluest sky with cloud fleets sailing,
Food and shelter never failing,
Life so rapturous in its living,
Nature never scant of giving,
Love, or sorrow, or such gladness,
As is most akin to madness?
Or for singing, singest thou,
Swayed on yonder slender bough,—
In thy song itself delighting
Sweet beyond all poet's writing,
Clear and liquid as the river
Flowing to the sea forever,
Glad as south-winds come in June
To the rose asleep at noon?
Nothing wistful, no way tender,
Voice of Nature's soulless splendor,
Some outpouring of the flame
Burning in thy wing and name,
Song that doth to heaven aspire
Even as leaping, quivering fire,
Oriole on the willow-tree,
Tell thy fairy tale to me!

Then the oriole laughed again,
Laughing at my question vain,
As the brook laughs down the mountain,
Like the laughter of a fountain;
Flashing through the willow-tree
Thus the oriole sang to me:—
“Restless, sorrowing, weak, and human,
Most of all a weary woman,
Can a bird-song on a tree
Utter any speech to thee?
Can thy soul receive the gladness
Of a thing that knows not sadness?
Canst thou know, insatiate creature,
All this mighty joy of Nature?
Joy so rich, so full, so fleeting,
Scarce it lives beyond the greeting;
Joy the dancing leaves adorning,
Glittering in the dewy morning,
In the soft winds gayly blowing,
In the sparkling waters flowing,
Utterly intact of sorrow,
Careless for the distant morrow;
Joy that burns in grace and beauty,
Darkened with no ghost of duty,
Rapture bright beyond all loving,
Gladness all dismay reproving;
Now a flame through verdure flying,
Now like any swift spark dying;
Nothing tossed by hope or fear,
Shadowed not by smile or tear;
Questioner beneath the tree,
Wouldst thou not an oriole be?”

Underneath the willow-tree
Thus the oriole sang to me.
Ah! what could I give for answer
To this gay and glad romancer?
Dreams that round me love to linger
On my hot lips laid a finger,
Dreams that held me all unwilling,
Dreams most sad in their fulfilling;
Yet I knew them dear and tender
More than all this song of splendor;
Dear as thorns are to the roses,
Dear as graves where love reposes;
Could I lose them out of living,
I, who asked not for their giving?
I, who on a weary day
Threw my dreaming soul away,
Would I take it back again,
Pure of joy and pure of pain,
Nevermore to thrill or languish,
Nevermore to throb with anguish,
Ne'er earth's dread delight to prove,
Nevermore to live,—or love?
Oriole on the willow-tree,
I must still a woman be!