 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
MARTINS ON THE TELEGRAPH WIRE.
Martins up on the telegraph wire
What do ye hear to-day?
Little brown gossips, all perched in a row
On the long fairy thread, chattering, chattering,
Is there a secret that no one must know?
Safe from your merry notes, scattering, scattering,
All its intent to the skies and the trees,
The dragon-flies know it, and so may the bees,
And little he thinks who with lightning flies after
His love with love's message, that—brimming with laughter—
The martins are listening—hearing it all,
A twittering choir,
Are telling it, telling it, brave gossips small,
On the telegraph wire.
What do ye hear to-day?
Little brown gossips, all perched in a row
On the long fairy thread, chattering, chattering,
Is there a secret that no one must know?
Safe from your merry notes, scattering, scattering,
All its intent to the skies and the trees,
The dragon-flies know it, and so may the bees,
And little he thinks who with lightning flies after
His love with love's message, that—brimming with laughter—
The martins are listening—hearing it all,
A twittering choir,
Are telling it, telling it, brave gossips small,
On the telegraph wire.
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Shake their bright heads, and swell their soft throats
Hither, thither, they turn;
Tidings are thrilling their velvety breasts.
Little clawed footsteps are pattering, pattering,
On the wire-causeway. O, where are your nests?
Bad little housekeepers, shattering, shattering
All my old faith in the bird moral laws....
Home! home! every one of you. But the small claws
Cling, cling all the closer, for tidings are speeding
A wedding! And gaily the martins are heeding,
Singing bird-madrigals numberless times
With spirit and fire
And doing their utmost towards ringing the chimes
On the telegraph wire.
Hither, thither, they turn;
Tidings are thrilling their velvety breasts.
Little clawed footsteps are pattering, pattering,
On the wire-causeway. O, where are your nests?
Bad little housekeepers, shattering, shattering
All my old faith in the bird moral laws....
Home! home! every one of you. But the small claws
Cling, cling all the closer, for tidings are speeding
A wedding! And gaily the martins are heeding,
Singing bird-madrigals numberless times
With spirit and fire
And doing their utmost towards ringing the chimes
On the telegraph wire.
Martins, O martins, is there no news
Other than love and joy?
Those dumb brown posts must be steeped with words
Harder than lover's soft flattering, flattering,
Hard as sledge-hammers, my bright little birds.
The door of our inner life, battering, battering—
Spite our fierce strivings, the barrier gives way,
We hear and must hear, that he died such a day,
Our dearest and best! But the little bird-voices
Chant on in their blitheness—they take what rejoices,
That only; the rest to poor man doth belong,
He hath it entire,
While the martins find nothing but joy for their song,
On the telegraph wire.
Other than love and joy?
Those dumb brown posts must be steeped with words
Harder than lover's soft flattering, flattering,
Hard as sledge-hammers, my bright little birds.
The door of our inner life, battering, battering—
Spite our fierce strivings, the barrier gives way,
We hear and must hear, that he died such a day,
Our dearest and best! But the little bird-voices
Chant on in their blitheness—they take what rejoices,
That only; the rest to poor man doth belong,
He hath it entire,
While the martins find nothing but joy for their song,
On the telegraph wire.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |