Shall sing among my branches as of yore,
Their last year's nests have shared my sudden doom
No more in early Springtime will they come
With twitters of artless ecstasy
To build their dwellings in the old oak tree;
No more with tiny wings raised timidly
From twig to twig the baby-birds shall fly
And try their first weak songs beneath the leaves
That to their cozy homes were roof and eaves.
Ye pigeons, that with fluttering pinions stayed
To gather acorns in the deepest shade,
Ye red-winged blackbirds that year after year
In earliest Spring were wont to gather here
Holding the season's first grand jubilee
Among the branches of the old oak tree,
Why more upon your vanished music dwell
Since all is past? My feathered friends—farewell.
Ye frisking squirrels that to your burrows bore
My plenteous acorns for your Winter store,
Ye lambs that nibbled the young grass below
And frolicked where the wild-flowers loved to blow,
Green grow the fields and blue the Summer sky
But as for me—a last and long—goodbye.
Ye cheerful wind-flowers that with dewy breath
Freighted the sunshine and shade beneath,
Fair, frail nemophilas in freshness grown
By Nature's hand in rich profusion sown
With wide blue eyes in loveliness upraised
That oft through dew-drop tears so sweetly gazed
Or clear as bluest depths of Summer sky
Looked up to those blue heavens lovingly,
And dainty cream-cups mingling with the blue,
Bright, tender wild-flowers evermore—adieu.
And thou, encircling stream, that at my foot
Didst fall in cascades over rock and root
Their last year's nests have shared my sudden doom
No more in early Springtime will they come
With twitters of artless ecstasy
To build their dwellings in the old oak tree;
No more with tiny wings raised timidly
From twig to twig the baby-birds shall fly
And try their first weak songs beneath the leaves
That to their cozy homes were roof and eaves.
Ye pigeons, that with fluttering pinions stayed
To gather acorns in the deepest shade,
Ye red-winged blackbirds that year after year
In earliest Spring were wont to gather here
Holding the season's first grand jubilee
Among the branches of the old oak tree,
Why more upon your vanished music dwell
Since all is past? My feathered friends—farewell.
Ye frisking squirrels that to your burrows bore
My plenteous acorns for your Winter store,
Ye lambs that nibbled the young grass below
And frolicked where the wild-flowers loved to blow,
Green grow the fields and blue the Summer sky
But as for me—a last and long—goodbye.
Ye cheerful wind-flowers that with dewy breath
Freighted the sunshine and shade beneath,
Fair, frail nemophilas in freshness grown
By Nature's hand in rich profusion sown
With wide blue eyes in loveliness upraised
That oft through dew-drop tears so sweetly gazed
Or clear as bluest depths of Summer sky
Looked up to those blue heavens lovingly,
And dainty cream-cups mingling with the blue,
Bright, tender wild-flowers evermore—adieu.
And thou, encircling stream, that at my foot
Didst fall in cascades over rock and root
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