O Nightingale, the poet’s bird,
A kinsman dear thou art,
Who never sings so well as when
The rose-thorns bruise his heart.
But since thy agony can make
A listening world so blest,
Be sure it cares but little for
Thy wounded, bleeding breast!
* * *
I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing,
‘Mercy, Pity, Peace,
Is the world’s release.’
Thus he sung all day
Over the new mown hay,
Till the sun went down
And haycocks looked brown.
I heard a Devil curse
...
I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes —
Each — with a Robin's expectation —
I — with my Redbreast —
And my Rhymes —
Late — when I take my place in summer —
But — I shall bring a fuller tune —
Vespers — are sweeter than Matins — Signor —...
No Bobolink — reverse His Singing
When the only Tree
Ever He minded occupying
By the Farmer be —
Clove to the Root —
His Spacious Future —
Best Horizon — gone —
Whose Music be His
Only Anodyne —
Brave Bobolink —
I.
LET all be husht, each softer Motion cease,
Be ev'ry loud tumultuous Thought at Peace,
And ev'ry ruder Gasp of Breath
Be calm, as in the Arms of Death.
And thou most fickle, most uneasie Part,
Thou restless Wanderer, my Heart,
Be still; gently, ah gently, leave,...
