 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
295
THE BIRD
“Bird in the branching tree,
Clasping the airy bough,
What is thy minstrelsy?
What singest thou?”
“Hark!” said the bird, “I sing
The sunshine and the rain,
And many a sweet small thing
That cometh not again.”
Clasping the airy bough,
What is thy minstrelsy?
What singest thou?”
“Hark!” said the bird, “I sing
The sunshine and the rain,
And many a sweet small thing
That cometh not again.”
“Swift from the tree's green heart
Joyfully leaps the song!
Rare is thy secret art
So rich and strong!”
“Nay,” said the bird, “not so!
I have no skill, no art;
Only the thanks that flow
From a full glad heart.”
Joyfully leaps the song!
Rare is thy secret art
So rich and strong!”
“Nay,” said the bird, “not so!
I have no skill, no art;
Only the thanks that flow
From a full glad heart.”
“Over the still pale streams
Quivers a single star!
Is it thy hope that gleams
So fair, so far?”
“Nay,” said the bird, “I sing
Neither of joy nor pain;
Sweet, most sweet is the thing
That cometh not again.”
Quivers a single star!
Is it thy hope that gleams
So fair, so far?”
296
Neither of joy nor pain;
Sweet, most sweet is the thing
That cometh not again.”
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |