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.