"For tho' the day never fades
Over these meadows,
Tho' He has robed me and crowned—yet, yet!
Some love-fear for ever shades
All with sere shadows—
Had I no child there—whom I forget?"
TO A SINGING WARBLER
"Beauty! all—all—is beauty?"
Was ever a bird so wrong!
"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"
Ribald! is this your song?
"Glad it is ended," are you?
The Spring and its nuptial fear?
"And freedom is better than love?" beware you,
There will be May next year!
"Beauty!" again, still "beauty"?
Wait till the winter comes!
Till kestrel and hungry kite seek booty
And the bleak cold benumbs!
Wait? nay, fling it to heaven
The false little song you prate!
Too sweet are its fancies not to leaven
Even the rudest fate!