Page:Poems Jones.djvu/165

The birdling, happy in his cage,
 Trilled like Venetian boatman's flute;
Nor could the golden creature gauge
 His tireless voice my mood to suit;
"Sweet song," I cried, "but it were sage
 If now and then the bird were mute!"

"Aye!" said my soul, "and do thou note
 The same, lest thy belovéd sneer,
'Sweet may thy song be, but by rote
 We have its round of carols clear:
It were but wise to rest the throat,
 And trouble less the sated ear.'"

But white-browed Hertha, gentle child,
 Thereat came near, and, pleading, said,
"I know where waters undefiled
 Are over rocks and rushes shed;
And softest mosses near them piled,
 Make dewy cushions for the head.

"Dear lady, through so green a nook
 Your city pathways never strayed;
Then come!" so urged, her hand I took,
 And walked beside the little maid,
Through odorous clover, to the brook
 That did its flowery bank abrade.