 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE FIELDFARE.
The fieldfares flit before me, as I go,Now flying low,
Now tripping o'er the furrows, row by row.
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Whose voice, mute here
That is, in other lands, belike, is heard,
That comest, in the falling of the year,
From worlds beyond the seas,
And as we mark thee, seemest without rest,
Still running, flitting o'er the flowerless leas,
To strive towards the West,
Thou as the poet art, whose voice too oft
Is overhearkened in the fields of life,
Whose speech too soft,
Too subtle is to pierce the din of strife,
Whose songs for other ears than ours are sung,
Whose music speaks an other-worldly tongue
And who, for peace, when life and strife are done,
Still to the Westward looks and to the setting sun.
| Carol and Cadence | |