A grief like yours how many have known!
Were that a balm to ease my own!
Or rather might I not accuse
The Hand that does not even choose,
But, taking blindly, took my best,
And as indifferently takes the rest ...
Like mine? Is there denied to me
Even Sorrow's singularity?
THE THRUSH SINGS
Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....
How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?
Or though forgetting, sing—and she is dead?
O hush,
Untimely, truant Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!"
Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead."
O hush,
Untimely, grievous Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead,
I sing her who is living, and no more dead,
I sing her joy—she is no longer dead."
O hush,
Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!