In tremulous showers the apple-tree shed Its pink and white blossoms on his head; The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words, He heard the gay song of a thousand birds. “All the others can sing,” he dolefully said— “All the others can sing,” he said.
So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wide The music was borne on the air’s warm tide, A sudden thought came to the sad little bird, And he lifted his head as within him it stirred. “If I cannot sing, I can listen,” he cried; “Ho! ho! I can listen!” he cried.
THE FIRST FIRE
O Virgin hearth, as chaste and cold As one who waits for burial mould, Whom shall we summon here to keep Watch while thou wakest from thy sleep?
Not from the far sky spaces, blue As those that Zeus and Hera knew, May Hestia wing her airy flight, Bringer of holy warmth and light.
Pan may not come. By stream and shore Fair Naiads dry their locks no more; No Oread dwells in mount and glen; No Dryad flees from gods or men.
Yet still do forest voices clear Greet him whose soul hath ears to hear; The murmur of the rustling pine Is sweet as Hermes’s harp divine.
The winds that rend the mighty oak Clash loud as Ares’s battle stroke; The maples toss each leafy crown Though Dian’s votive wreaths are brown.
Here, as to sacrificial pyre Kindled with pure celestial fire, Shall hemlock, pine, and maple bring The deep wood’s fragrant offering,
As incense to this household shrine. O hearth, no richer spoil were thine If all Dodona’s oaks had shed Their life-blood and for thee lay dead!