And this, meseems, does the cat-bird say,
As the blossoms crowd i’ the sun:—
“Up, up! and out! oh, out and away!
Up, up! and out, each one!
Sweethearts! sweethearts! oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!
Come listen and hark to me!
The Spring, the Spring, with her fragrant feet,
Is passing this way!—Oh, hark to the beat
Of her bee-like heart!—Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet!
Come! open your eyes and see!
See, see, see!”
DAYS COME AND GO
Leaves fall and flowers fade,
Days come and go:
Now is sweet Summer laid
Low in her leafy glade,
Low like a fragrant maid,
Low, low, ah, low.
Tears fall and eyelids ache,
Hearts overflow:
Here for our dead love’s sake
Let us our farewells make—
Will he again awake?
Ah, no, no, no.
Winds sigh and skies are gray,
Days come and go:
Wild birds are flown away:
Where are the blooms of May?—
Dead, dead, this many a day,
Under the snow.
Lips sigh and cheeks are pale,
Hearts overflow:
Will not some song or tale,
Kiss, or a flower frail,
With our dead love avail?—
Ah, no, no, no.
THE WANING YEAR
A sense of something that is sad and strange;
Of something that is felt as death is felt,—
As shadows, phantoms, in a haunted grange,—
Around me seems to melt.
It rises, so it seems, from the decay
Of the dim woods; from withered leaves and weeds,
And dead flowers hanging by the woodland way
Sad, hoary heads of seeds.
And from the cricket’s song,—so feeble now
’Tis like a sound heard in the heart, a call
Dreamier than dreams;—and from the shaken bough,
And acorns’ drowsy fall.