THE SONG-SPARROW
WHEN plowmen ridge the steamy brown,
And yearning meadows sprout to green,
And all the spires and towers of town
Blent soft with wavering mists are seen:
When quickened woods in freshening hue
Along Mount Royal billowy swell,
When airs caress and May is new,
Oh, then my shy bird sings so well!
Because the blood-roots flock in white,
And blossomed branches scent the air,
And mounds with trillium flags are dight,
And myriad dells of violets rare;
Because such velvet leaves unclose,
And newborn rills all chiming ring,
And blue the dear St Lawrence flows—
My timid bird is forced to sing.
A joyful flourish lilted clear,—
Four notes—then fails the frolic song,
And memories of a vanished year
The wistful cadences prolong:
"A vanished year—O, heart too sore—
I cannot sing;" thus ends the lay:
Long silence, then awakes once more
His song, ecstatic of the May!