Throstle-bird!
I have heard
This thy voice of cheer,
As I lay
In the sway
Of a waking fear;
And its message dropt me peace,
From its rapt career.
Yet, say how
Thou may’st now
Every note prolong!
Doth the fog
Never clog
Never still thy song?
Doth thy music ever rise
Mellow, sweet, and strong?
Ho! when Morn
Doth adorn
Shuddering Mother Earth,
Jocund Day
Swelling gay,
Kingly in his girth,
I may something understand
This so mellow mirth.
But when morn
Rises worn,
As on gloomy wing;
When in murk
Light doth lurk
Like some callow thing,
Tell me, throstle, how thou then
Cheerily canst sing?
Oftentime
Peace sublime,
’Mid the fairest day,
Flickers wan
And is gone
Phantom on its way,
Then a sudden gloom enshrouds
Hearts within its sway.
Then the smile
Fades awhile,
Then the laugh is still,
Then the tune
Falters, hewn
By the touch of Ill,
Then Life’s music flutters low
Sorrow to fulfil.
Ill-content
To be pent
Out of aught, griefs come
All unbid
Right amid
Spirits frolicsome:
Ah! then lips attuned to praise
Press each other dumb!
Yet, sweet bird,
Nought has blurred
These most wondrous throes:
Melody
Rapt and free
Out the midst of woes;
May I turn to thee to learn
What thy spirit knows!
That when gloom
Like a doom
Blots the azure sky,
I may learn
Blight to spurn,
And the Day descry,
Howsoe’er the Word of Ill
Spells the Earth awry.
Smirk and smutch
May I touch
To a loftier scheme,
Irk and Doubt
Ravelling out
In a song supreme;
As, rare bird, thy spirits turn
Sturdily thy theme.