THE SIGHING TREE
The folk of the wood called me—
"There sits a golden bird
Upon your mother's pear-tree—"
But I never said a word.
The Sleepy People whispered—
"The bird is singing now."
But I felt not then like leaving bed
Nor listening beneath the bough.
But the wronged world beat my portals—
"Come out or be sore oppressed!"
So I threw a stone at the grackle
And my throbbing heart had rest.
Richard Le Gallienne
(Advancing with a dreamy air of there still being a Yellow Book.)