Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
411. Song
By Maria White Lowell
O BIRD, thou dartest to the sun,
When morning beams first spring,
And I, like thee, would swiftly run;
As sweetly would I sing.
Thy burning heart doth draw thee up        5
Unto the source of fire;
Thou drinkest from its glowing cup
And quenchest thy desire.
O dew, thou droppest soft below,
And pearlest all the ground,        10
Yet, when the morning comes, I know
Thou never canst be found.
I would like thine had been my birth;
Then I, without a sigh,
Might sleep the night through on the earth        15
To waken in the sky.
O clouds, ye little tender sheep,
Pastured in fields of blue,
While moon and stars your fold can keep
And gently shepherd you,        20
Let me, too, follow in the train
That flocks across the night,
Or lingers on the open plain
With new-shorn fleeces white.
O singing winds, that wander far,        25
Yet always seem at home,
And freely play ’twixt star and star
Along the bending dome,
I often listen to your song,
Yet never hear you say        30
One word of all the happy worlds
That sing so far away.
For they are free, ye all are free,
And bird, and dew, and light,
Can dart upon the azure sea        35
And leave me to my night;
Oh, would like theirs had been my birth,
Then I, without a sigh,
Might sleep this night through on the earth
To waken in the sky.        40


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