Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/To a Dead Bird
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TO A DEAD BIRD,FOUND IN THE WOODS AT EVENING.
Bird of the forest, beautiful and dead!
While in the twilight here I look on thee,
Strange fancies, of the wild life that has fled,
Dimly and sadly gather over me,
Until, above thy calm and silent sleep,
I can but bow my aching head and weep.
While in the twilight here I look on thee,
Strange fancies, of the wild life that has fled,
Dimly and sadly gather over me,
Until, above thy calm and silent sleep,
I can but bow my aching head and weep.
Alas, that when the Spring-time's here to wake
The flowers and music of thy woodland halls,
Thou whose glad voice so sweet a strain could make
In concert with the winds and water-falls,
In cold and hushed oblivion shouldst lie—
While things that suffer ask, in vain, to die!
The flowers and music of thy woodland halls,
Thou whose glad voice so sweet a strain could make
In concert with the winds and water-falls,
In cold and hushed oblivion shouldst lie—
While things that suffer ask, in vain, to die!
But, wast thou purely blest¥ Ah, who can tell
But birds may have their sorrows? It may be
That boundless love in thy small breast did dwell
For some bright, wingéd thing—that flew from thee
And left his scorn to pierce thy bleeding heart,
Till Death, in pity, drew away its dart.
But birds may have their sorrows? It may be
That boundless love in thy small breast did dwell
For some bright, wingéd thing—that flew from thee
And left his scorn to pierce thy bleeding heart,
Till Death, in pity, drew away its dart.
Or thine, perchance, has been a perfect love,
(If any love can be without a sting!)
And thy lone mate may come to mourn above
Thy blighted beauty, with a drooping wing,
Till, like all lonely mates, he seek relief,
In some new rapture, for his transient grief.
(If any love can be without a sting!)
And thy lone mate may come to mourn above
Thy blighted beauty, with a drooping wing,
Till, like all lonely mates, he seek relief,
In some new rapture, for his transient grief.
Or thou mayst have been of a royal race;
And radiant throngs of minstrel-things to-day,
Even in thine airy realm's remotest place,
May mourn, or joy, that thou hast passed away,—
For gold and purple glitter on thy breast,
And thou art laid right regally to rest.
And radiant throngs of minstrel-things to-day,
Even in thine airy realm's remotest place,
May mourn, or joy, that thou hast passed away,—
For gold and purple glitter on thy breast,
And thou art laid right regally to rest.
Was thy death tranquil—Or, amid the glare
Of Heaven's fierce fire-arms was thy being sped?
Or did some winged assassin of the air,
For hate, or envy, meet and strike thee dead?
Was life still blushing with youth's rosy glow,
Or, worn and weary, wast thou glad to go?
Of Heaven's fierce fire-arms was thy being sped?
Or did some winged assassin of the air,
For hate, or envy, meet and strike thee dead?
Was life still blushing with youth's rosy glow,
Or, worn and weary, wast thou glad to go?
And was thy all of joy, or grief, on earth?
Or art thou gone to try thy wing anew
Where lovelier roses have their happier birth,
And woods are ever green, skies ever blue,
And breezy music gushes rich and warm,
With not a sigh, or whisper of the storm?
Or art thou gone to try thy wing anew
Where lovelier roses have their happier birth,
And woods are ever green, skies ever blue,
And breezy music gushes rich and warm,
With not a sigh, or whisper of the storm?
. . . Fit mausoleum is this hollow tree,
With faded leaves to pillow thy bright head;
And, if such rest is all that's left for thee,
Methinks it is enough, sweet singer dead!
For winds will sing and buds will burst above,
And I'll believe they left thee here with love!
With faded leaves to pillow thy bright head;
And, if such rest is all that's left for thee,
Methinks it is enough, sweet singer dead!
For winds will sing and buds will burst above,
And I'll believe they left thee here with love!