AUSPEX.
My heart, I cannot still it,
Nest that had song-birds in it;
And when the last shall go,
The dreary days, to fill it,
Instead of lark or linnet,
Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.
Had they been swallows only,
Without the passion stronger
That skyward longs and sings,—
Woe’s me, I shall be lonely
When I can feel no longer
The impatience of their wings!
A moment, sweet delusion,
Like birds the brown leaves hover;
But it will not be long
Before their wild confusion
Fall wavering down to cover
The poet and his song.
THE PREGNANT COMMENT.
Opening one day a book of mine,
I absent, Hester found a line
Praised with a pencil-mark, and this
She left transfigured with a kiss.
“When next upon the page I chance,
Like Poussin’s nymphs my pulses dance,
And whirl my fancy where it sees
Pan piping ’neath Arcadian trees,
Whose leaves no winter-scenes rehearse,
Still young and glad as Homer’s verse.
“What mean,” I ask, “these sudden joys?
This feeling fresher than a boy’s?
What makes this line, familiar long,
New as the first bird’s April song?
I could, with sense illumined thus,
Clear doubtful texts in Æschylus!”
Laughing, one day she gave the key,
My riddle’s open-sesame;
Then added, with a smile demure,
Whose downcast lids veiled triumph sure,
“If what I left there give you pain,
You—you—can take it off again;
’Twas for my poet, not for him,
Your Doctor Donne there!”
Earth grew dim
And wavered in a golden mist,
As rose, not paper, leaves I kissed.
Donne, you forgive? I let you keep
Her precious comment, poet deep.