AVICE

THOUGH the voice of modern schools

Has demurred,

By the dreamy Asian creed

’Tis averred,

That the souls of men, released

From their bodies when deceased,

Sometimes enter in a beast,—

Or a bird.

I have watched you long, Avice,—

Watched you so,

I have found your secret out;

And I know

That the restless ribboned things,

Where your slope of shoulder springs,

Are but undeveloped wings,

That will grow.

When you enter in a room,

It is stirred

With the wayward, flashing flight

Of a bird;

And you speak—and bring with your

Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,

And the wind-breath and the dew,

At a word.

When you called to me my name,

Then again

When I heard your single cry

In the lane,

All the sound was as the “sweet”

Which the birds to birds repeat

In their thank-song to the heat

After rain.

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,—

’Twas absurd,—

But it seemed no human note

That I heard;

For your strain had all the trills,

All the little shakes and stills,

Of the over-song that rills

From a bird.

You have just their eager, quick

Airs de tête,

All their flush and fever-heat

When elate;

Every bird-like nod and beck,

And a bird’s own curve of neck

When she gives a little peck

To her mate.

When you left me, only now,

In that furred,

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,

I was spurred

Just to catch you, O my sweet,

By the bodice trim and neat,—

Just to feel your heart-a-beat,

Like a bird.

Yet alas! Love’s light you deign

But to wear

As the dew upon your plumes,

And you care

Not a whit for rest or hush;

But the leaves, the lyric gush,

And the wing-power, and the rush

Of the air.

So I dare not woo you, sweet,

For a day,

Lest I lose you in a flash,

As I may;

Did I tell you tender things,

You would shake your sudden wings;—

You would start from him who sings,

And away.

Austin Dobson.