 | Shamrocks |  |
86
A NESTED BIRD.
All in the sweet, sweet April weather,
With flute, and trill, and glint of feather,
The russet bird doth build its nest;
The innocent heart beats wild and high
For thought of wee heads soon to lie
Below the mother's silken breast.
With flute, and trill, and glint of feather,
The russet bird doth build its nest;
The innocent heart beats wild and high
For thought of wee heads soon to lie
Below the mother's silken breast.
All through the lovely shine and shower
She dreameth in her leafy bower,
She broodeth while the others sing;
And lo! some happy dawn or even,
The baby things, as sweet as heaven,
Are nestled underneath her wing.
She dreameth in her leafy bower,
She broodeth while the others sing;
And lo! some happy dawn or even,
The baby things, as sweet as heaven,
Are nestled underneath her wing.
But May will wax and wane to June
Who lieth dead some lustrous noon:
Ah, birdie mine! one weary hour
Your little children rise and fly
On tender wings to the morning sky,
And leave you lonely evermore!
Who lieth dead some lustrous noon:
Ah, birdie mine! one weary hour
87
On tender wings to the morning sky,
And leave you lonely evermore!
All in the sweet, sweet April rain,
With mother-love and mother-pain,
A brown bird nests within my heart;
And when the summer shows come on
Our nestlings fly to meet the dawn,
To some strange wondrous world apart.
With mother-love and mother-pain,
A brown bird nests within my heart;
And when the summer shows come on
Our nestlings fly to meet the dawn,
To some strange wondrous world apart.
These be my songs that rise and flee
Across the land, across the sea—
To what far unfamiliar shore?
My dim eyes watch their trembling flight,
Till each wild wing is lost to sight:
The distance holds them evermore.
Across the land, across the sea—
To what far unfamiliar shore?
My dim eyes watch their trembling flight,
Till each wild wing is lost to sight:
The distance holds them evermore.
And sometimes one will fail and fall;
“O little one, come back!” I call,
“My heart and I have room for thee.”
I gather up the trembling thing,
My wee bird with its broken wing—
My home-bird evermore to be.
“O little one, come back!” I call,
“My heart and I have room for thee.”
I gather up the trembling thing,
My wee bird with its broken wing—
My home-bird evermore to be.
88
And sometimes I shall hear of one,
When many a day hath come and gone,
That hath found rest and shelter sure;
That shall make music fair and fine
For some more lonely heart than mine,
While sunless winter days endure.
When many a day hath come and gone,
That hath found rest and shelter sure;
That shall make music fair and fine
For some more lonely heart than mine,
While sunless winter days endure.
And in my heart through many a Spring
The happy mother-bird doth sing,
Through many a winter wan and grey:
In Summer fulness, Autumn pain,
My golden-throat with silver strain
Doth charm pale sorrow's tears away.
The happy mother-bird doth sing,
Through many a winter wan and grey:
In Summer fulness, Autumn pain,
My golden-throat with silver strain
Doth charm pale sorrow's tears away.
O little flowers! that blow and bud,
That dance and play, by croft and wood,
Your breath makes sweet a world of pain;
Arising from the sad earth's face,
Makes incense that shall find more grace
Than this bird's tiny loving strain.
That dance and play, by croft and wood,
Your breath makes sweet a world of pain;
Arising from the sad earth's face,
Makes incense that shall find more grace
Than this bird's tiny loving strain.
O happy birds! that sing and sing
Down all the windy ways of Spring,
How pure and clear your voices be!
But this bird's love-song, thin and small,
Like violet's breath, or blackbird's call,
Makes glad my wintry heart and me.
Down all the windy ways of Spring,
How pure and clear your voices be!
89
Like violet's breath, or blackbird's call,
Makes glad my wintry heart and me.
Alas! and if, some day of woe,
My heart and I should wake to know
That we were silent, left forlorn,
Our house unswept, ungarnished—
Our bonny song-bird being dead,
Or flown to never more return;
My heart and I should wake to know
That we were silent, left forlorn,
Our house unswept, ungarnished—
Our bonny song-bird being dead,
Or flown to never more return;
My heart and I would never rise
To look the new life in the eyes—
The pale life with the dear soul fled;
We would lie very still and mute,
Most like an ancient shattered lute
Whereon the grey years' dusts are shed.
To look the new life in the eyes—
The pale life with the dear soul fled;
We would lie very still and mute,
Most like an ancient shattered lute
Whereon the grey years' dusts are shed.
And through the silence and the gloom,
One day sweet Death would surely come,
His grey wings sweeping with no sound;
He hath a clear face like a star;
His lips and eyes most tender are;
His kind hand healeth many a wound.
One day sweet Death would surely come,
His grey wings sweeping with no sound;
He hath a clear face like a star;
His lips and eyes most tender are;
His kind hand healeth many a wound.
90
And he, perchance, with pity fair,
Would makr where this sad heart lay bare,
Would reach and lift it with no word:
Would spread his wings and sail away,
And, in a strange new April day,
Would give the nest its singing-bird.
Would makr where this sad heart lay bare,
Would reach and lift it with no word:
Would spread his wings and sail away,
And, in a strange new April day,
Would give the nest its singing-bird.
| Shamrocks | |