XXXII.
THE BIRD.
1
Cold rain hath fallen through the kindless spring,
Sweet bird of song!
Thou hast been mute; with wet and furled wing,
Dejected long.
2
Summer at length is warm upon the earth;
And sun and dew
Gladden the heart of things; and thy wild mirth
Thrills heaven through.
3
Had the spring worn the aspect of all gladness
On her fresh brow,
Thou couldst not have been further voiced from sadness,
Rich bird! than now.
4
And to have lived to sing to this great morn,
So robed in glory!
Cold winds and chilling showers well hast thou borne,
Thing transitory!
5
Let not despair await on gloom and sorrow,
Though dark-enduring;
For in the future there is still a morrow
High joy assuring.
