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| SWEET singer of the Spring, when the new world | |
| Was fill’d with song and bloom, and the fresh year | |
| Tripp’d, like a lamb playful and void of fear, | |
| Through daisied grass and young leaves scarce unfurl’d, | |
| Where is thy liquid voice | 5 |
| That all day would rejoice? | |
| Where now thy sweet and homely call, | |
| Which from gray dawn to evening’s chilling fall | |
| Would echo from thin copse and tassell’d brake, | |
| For homely duty tun’d and love’s sweet sake? | 10 |
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| The spring-tide pass’d, high summer soon should come. | |
| The woods grew thick, the meads a deeper hue; | |
| The pipy summer growths swell’d, lush and tall; | |
| The sharp scythes swept at daybreak through the dew. | |
| Thou didst not heed at all, | 15 |
| Thy prodigal voice grew dumb; | |
| No more with song mightst thou beguile, | |
| She sitting on her speckled eggs the while, | |
| Thy mate’s long vigil as the slow days went, | |
| Solacing her with lays of measureless content. | 20 |
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| Nay, nay, thy voice was Duty’s, nor would dare | |
| Sing were Love fled, though still the world were fair; | |
| The summer wax’d and wan’d, the nights grew cold, | |
| The sheep were thick within the wattled fold, | |
| The woods began to moan, | 25 |
| Dumb wert thou and alone; | |
| Yet now, when leaves are sere, thy ancient note | |
| Comes low and halting from thy doubtful throat. | |
| Oh, lonely loveless voice, what dost thou here | |
| In the deep silence of the fading year? | 30 |
| |
| Thus do I read answer of thy song: | |
| “I sang when winds blew chilly all day long; | |
| I sang because hope came and joy was near, | |
| I sang a little while, I made good cheer; | |
| In summer’s cloudless day | 35 |
| My music died away; | |
| But now the hope and glory of the year | |
| Are dead and gone, a little while I sing | |
| Songs of regret for days no longer here, | |
| And touch’d with presage of the far-off Spring.” | 40 |
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| Is this the meaning of thy note, fair bird? | |
| Or do we read into thy simple brain | |
| Echoes of thoughts which human hearts have stirr’d, | |
| High-soaring joy and melancholy pain? | |
| Nay, nay, that lingering note | 45 |
| Belated from thy throat— | |
| “Regret,” is what it sings, “regret, regret! | |
| The dear days pass, but are not wholly gone. | |
| In praise of those I let my song go on; | |
| ’T is sweeter to remember than forget.” | 50 |
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