THE BIRD I WAIT FOR.
AFTER THE FRENCH OF MOREAU.
Dead, buried suns of former years arise,
And flowers bloom I thought had died last spring;
The birds that fled last fall our wintry skies
People again the woods on joyous wing;
At dawn soft rustling pinions waken me,
And swallows darken window-pane and door;
Breathless I listen, gazing wistfully,
Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.
A high ambition swept my pulses through;
Gazing one day upon the eagle’s flight,
I pierced with him the heaven’s o’erarching blue,
And beat my pinions at the gates of light.
To-day the bird of Jove alone defies
The sun-god’s burning glance, the tempest’s roar;
I watch his flight unmoved, with listless eyes,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.
The lark pours forth his liquid flood of song,
Seeking the secret covert where love lies,
Wherein to weave a palace for his young;
He sings his song, he loves his love and dies,
His sweet small soul with his own music thrilled.
O mocking warbler, cease the song to pour,
Of Love victorious, fierce desire fulfilled,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.
The martin hovers o’er the slumbering bay,
Deep mirrored in the blue abyss he lies,
Now swiftly whirls and darts in idle play,
Now rocked as in a poet’s reveries.
O happy friend, follow thy fantasy,
Dream on the wave, wanton along the shore,
The bird I fondly wait for comes no more.
Arrive at last, O messenger from heaven,
Black envoy, bearing in thy beak of yore
The bread to famishing Elijah given.
Has God for me no portion I implore?
It soon will be too late, the shadows press,
And night-birds gather round my darkening door.
Dead with the prophet in the wilderness,
Alas, the bird I wait for comes no more.