 | Orchard Songs |  |
76
REGRET
O human bird, whose nest has been
Within my heart a thousand days,
To fly away so suddenly
When April glittered in her green,
And woodland aisles
For leafy miles
In fifty fine harmonious ways
Were musical with flying praise,
Was a strange winging from my life,
O false and fair—
Was a departure that the sense
Could nowhere gather strength to bear!
Within my heart a thousand days,
To fly away so suddenly
When April glittered in her green,
And woodland aisles
For leafy miles
In fifty fine harmonious ways
Were musical with flying praise,
Was a strange winging from my life,
O false and fair—
Was a departure that the sense
Could nowhere gather strength to bear!
Day comes.
The Artist of the dawn
Makes all the sky a masterpiece;
The dewdrops vanish from the lawn
And from the shepherd's sheep.
Each day's a miracle to cheat the mind,
Night brings the wonder, sleep;
But all along the lane there flies
My loss of her whose helping eyes
Made olden moments kind;
And in the pulsing heart of night,
When darkness seems to throb to light,
Remembrance of my whitethroat yet
Comes with a great regret.
No blackbird's magic in the bush,
Succeeded by the aching hush,
Can win me from my thought of her;
And all that Father Avon says
To leagues of blue forget-me-nots
Cannot cast out
My dream of Jenny's girlish ways,
Her lovely pout;
And all those perished days
When on my knees
She sat contented till the sun was set—
God has not fashioned me to think them nought,
Or taught me to forget!
The Artist of the dawn
Makes all the sky a masterpiece;
77
And from the shepherd's sheep.
Each day's a miracle to cheat the mind,
Night brings the wonder, sleep;
But all along the lane there flies
My loss of her whose helping eyes
Made olden moments kind;
And in the pulsing heart of night,
When darkness seems to throb to light,
Remembrance of my whitethroat yet
Comes with a great regret.
No blackbird's magic in the bush,
Succeeded by the aching hush,
Can win me from my thought of her;
And all that Father Avon says
To leagues of blue forget-me-nots
78
My dream of Jenny's girlish ways,
Her lovely pout;
And all those perished days
When on my knees
She sat contented till the sun was set—
God has not fashioned me to think them nought,
Or taught me to forget!
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