ORIOLE’S NEST
AT FLEUR DE LYS
Night in an oriole’s hanging nest
Is rocking a basket world to sleep.
The wind blows soft
And the wind blows far,
Star, creep, star!
Pack me tight in my basket world,
Tread me and turn me with feet of your love!
O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!
O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
Down in the marshes the little fish gleam,
Down in the marshes the little fish stir
Rushes in sleep,
Rushes that keep
Wrinkling the light of a drowsy star.
Here in my basket world hung on the wind
Over me rustles an ebony bough,
Over me hovers a silvery beak;
And clear and soft
And near and far
Lustre of loving eyes rocked in this nest,
Eyes that are gentle,
Eyes that are meek.
O, Mother Bird, fledge me with feather and rest!
O, Mother Bird, brood me with flame of your breast!
LITTLE MISS HILLY
Oh, little Miss Hilly of Northampton-town
Goes walking the valleys and meadows adown;
She looks in the brooks for the stars and the moon
And she sings an old chanty a bit out of tune.
Oh, little Miss Hilly is dear unto me,—
Is dear unto me!
Her arms are so eager but tiny are they,
And her fingers are agile as waters at play.
Yet little Miss Hilly must climb a steep slope,
Must go without laughter and live without hope:
Must chatter and patter like leaves and like rain,
Must shiver and quiver and ache with the pain
Of climbing for stars and wanting the moon
As she puts an old chanty once more into tune,
Ere the stars will come down or the moon will reply
Except by a wink through a chink in the sky
Oh, little Miss Hilly so dear unto me,
So dear unto me!