 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
202
THE BLACKBIRD.
Upon the cherry-bough the blackbird sings
His careless, happy song,
As 'mid the rubied fruit he tilting swings,
Heedless of Right or Wrong.
His careless, happy song,
As 'mid the rubied fruit he tilting swings,
Heedless of Right or Wrong.
No Future taunts him with its fears or hopes,
No cares his Present fret;
The Past for him no dismal vista opes
Of useless, dark regret.
No cares his Present fret;
The Past for him no dismal vista opes
Of useless, dark regret.
Ah! how I envy him, as there he sings
His glad unthinking strain,
Untroubled by the sad imaginings
That haunt man's plotting brain!
His glad unthinking strain,
Untroubled by the sad imaginings
That haunt man's plotting brain!
All orchards are his home; no work or care
Compels him here to stay;
His is the world—the breathing, open air—
The glorious summer day.
Compels him here to stay;
His is the world—the breathing, open air—
The glorious summer day.
Below, Earth blossoms for him; and above,
Heaven smiles in boundless blue;
Joy is in all things, and the song of Love
Thrills his whole being through.
Heaven smiles in boundless blue;
Joy is in all things, and the song of Love
Thrills his whole being through.
203
From bough to bough its gay and transient guest
Is free to come and go
Where'er the whim invites, where'er the best
Of juicy blackhearts grow.
Is free to come and go
Where'er the whim invites, where'er the best
Of juicy blackhearts grow.
His are their sunny sides, that through and through
He stabs with coral bill;
And his the happiness man never knew,
That conscience cannot kill.
He stabs with coral bill;
And his the happiness man never knew,
That conscience cannot kill.
Ah! we who boast we are the crown of things
Like him are never glad;
By doubts and dreams and dark self-questionings
We stand besieged and sad.
Like him are never glad;
By doubts and dreams and dark self-questionings
We stand besieged and sad.
What know we of that rare felicity
The unconscious blackbird knows,
That no misgiving spoils; that frank and free
From merely living grows?
The unconscious blackbird knows,
That no misgiving spoils; that frank and free
From merely living grows?
Haggard Repentance ever dogs our path;
The foul fiend Discontent
Harries the spirit, and the joys it hath
Are but a moment lent.
The foul fiend Discontent
Harries the spirit, and the joys it hath
Are but a moment lent.
The riddle of our Life we cannot guess;
From toil to toil we haste,
And in our sweetest joy some bitterness
Of secret pain we taste.
From toil to toil we haste,
And in our sweetest joy some bitterness
Of secret pain we taste.
204
Ah! for an hour at least, when bold and free
In being's pure delight,
Loosed from the cares that clog humanity,
The soul might wing its flight!
In being's pure delight,
Loosed from the cares that clog humanity,
The soul might wing its flight!
Then, blackbird, we might sing the perfect song
Of Life and Love with thee,
Where no regret nor toil, nor fear of Wrong,
Nor doubt of Right should be.
Of Life and Love with thee,
Where no regret nor toil, nor fear of Wrong,
Nor doubt of Right should be.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |