 | Collected poems |  |
179
THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS
Ægrotus.Spring,—art thou come, O Spring!
I am too sick for words;
How hast thou heart to sing,
O Spring, with all thy birds?
Merula.
I sing for joy to see again
The merry leaves along the lane,
The little bud grown ripe;
And look, my love upon the bough!
Hark, how she calleth to me now,—
“Pipe! pipe!”
Ægrotus.
Ah! weary is the sun:
Love is an idle thing;
But, Bird, thou restless one,
What ails thee, wandering?
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By shore and sea I come and go
To seek I know not what; and lo!
On no man's eaves I sit,
But voices bid me rise once more,
To flit again by sea and shore,—
Flit! flit!
Ægrotus.
This is Earth's bitter cup:—
Only to seek, not know.
But Thou, that strivest up,
Why dost thou carol so?
Alauda.
A secret Spirit gifteth me
With song, and wing that lifteth me,—
A Spirit for whose sake,
Striving amain to reach the sky,
Still to the old dark earth I cry,—
“Wake! wake!
Ægrotus.
My hope hath lost its wing.
Thou, that to Night dost call,
How hast thou heart to sing
Thy tears made musical?
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Alas for me! a dry desire
Is all my song,—a waste of fire
That will not fade nor fail;
To me, dim shapes of ancient crime
Moan through the windy ways of time,
“Wail! wail!”
Ægrotus.
This is the sick man's song,—
Mournful, in sooth, and fit;
Unrest that cries “How long!”—
And the Night answers it.
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