Youth

Out of the heart there flew a little singing bird,   Past the dawn and the dew, where leaves of morning stirred, And the heart, which followed on, said: “Though the bird be flown   Which sang in the dew and the dawn, the song is still my own.” Over the foot-worn track, over the rock and thorn,   The tired heart looked back to the olive leaves of morn, To the fair, lost fields again, and said: “I hear it! Oh, hark!”—   Though the bird were long since slain, though the song had died in the dark.