Poems (Chitwood)/Bird on the Gnarled Old Cherry
BIRD ON THE GNARLED OLD CHERRY.
Bird on the gnarled old cherry, Cease, cease thy thrilling song!It hath opened a heart-door dusty, That had been shut so long!It hath set my heart to thrilling, As the sea thrills to the moon:Bird on the gnarled old cherry, Cease, cease thy thrilling tune!
It hath borne me to the morning Of life's delicious spring,When the heart had no shady corner, And life was a gladsome thing—Away to a golden twilight, In the eve of a long dead June,When far in the west like a sickle, Trembled the dear young moon.
But what of that golden twilight? And what of that month so bright?I rocked in the gnarled old cherry, An innocent child, that night:There were green leaves playing o'er me, And ripe fruit on each bough,And I set my thoughts to music, That is but a memory now.
There were white clouds slowly sailing Over the deep, deep blue;There were stars that seemed like blossoms Glittering with the dew;There were notes far sweeter, purer Than the breathings of a lute,Till the very heart in my bosom, To listen awhile, was mute.
Slowly away in her beauty, The young moon passed from sight,Like a pure nun faintly blushing, To the cloister of the night: And then to my wondering vision. Came white wing'd angels seven,Gathering the stars, like lilies, To twine in the bowers of heaven.
Then my heart throbbed loudly, wildly, And my eyes were dim with tears,For I glanced with the eye of a prophet Through the door of future years:There were graves scooped in my pathway, And dead buds falling apart;I noted the sad, gloomy picture, And hid it away in my heart.
Bird on the gnarled old cherry, I sang once glad as thou,But the notes of my early music Are nearly a torture now!And oft as I sit in the twilight, When the young moon comes in sight,My heart goes back like a pilgrim To the glow of that dead June night;
And I listen in vain for the music That made my heart-strings thrill,Like Eve by the grave of her children, Thinking of Eden still;Striving to pray that my errors May be once more forgiven;That I with a child's clear vision, May look through the skies to heaven.