 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
266
SONGS
I cannot sing as sings the nightingale,
Frenzied with rapture, big with rich delight,
Till lovers lean together, passion-pale,
And chide the awestruck silence of the night.
Frenzied with rapture, big with rich delight,
Till lovers lean together, passion-pale,
And chide the awestruck silence of the night.
I cannot sing as sings the tranquil thrush,
O'er dewy thicket and untrodden lawn,
When early gossamers veil the frosted bush
In the chaste freshness of the sparkling dawn.
O'er dewy thicket and untrodden lawn,
When early gossamers veil the frosted bush
In the chaste freshness of the sparkling dawn.
I cannot sing as sings the brooding dove,
At windless noon, in her high towers of green,
A song of deep content, untroubled love,
With many a meditative pause between.
At windless noon, in her high towers of green,
A song of deep content, untroubled love,
With many a meditative pause between.
I cannot sing as sings the dauntless owl
His shout of horror at a dark dead hour:
When the hair pricks, and startled watch-dogs howl,
And night-bells clamour in the lonely tower.
His shout of horror at a dark dead hour:
When the hair pricks, and startled watch-dogs howl,
And night-bells clamour in the lonely tower.
But I can sing as sings the prudent bee.
As hour by patient hour he goes and comes,
Bearing the golden dust from tree to tree,
Labours in hope, and as he labours, hums.
As hour by patient hour he goes and comes,
Bearing the golden dust from tree to tree,
Labours in hope, and as he labours, hums.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |