| |
| THOUGH the voice of modern schools | |
| Has demurred, | |
| By the dreamy Asian creed | |
| ’T is averred, | |
| That the souls of men, released | 5 |
| From their bodies when deceased, | |
| Sometimes enter in a beast,— | |
| Or a bird. | |
| |
| I have watched you long, Avice,— | |
| Watched you so, | 10 |
| I have found your secret out; | |
| And I know | |
| That the restless ribboned things, | |
| Where your slope of shoulder springs, | |
| Are but undeveloped wings | 15 |
| That will grow. | |
| |
| When you enter in a room, | |
| It is stirred | |
| With the wayward, flashing flight | |
| Of a bird; | 20 |
| And you speak—and bring with you | |
| Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, | |
| And the wind-breath and the dew, | |
| At a word. | |
| |
| When you called to me my name, | 25 |
| Then again | |
| When I heard your single cry | |
| In the lane, | |
| All the sound was as the “sweet” | |
| Which the birds to birds repeat | 30 |
| In their thank-song to the heat | |
| After rain. | |
| |
| When you sang the Schwalbenlied, | |
| ’T was absurd,— | |
| But it seemed no human note | 35 |
| That I heard; | |
| For your strain had all the trills, | |
| All the little shakes and stills, | |
| Of the over-song that rills | |
| From a bird. | 40 |
| |
| You have just their eager, quick | |
| “Airs de tête,” | |
| All their flush and fever-heat | |
| When elate; | |
| Every bird-like nod and beck, | 45 |
| And a bird’s own curve of neck | |
| When she gives a little peck | |
| To her mate. | |
| |
| When you left me, only now, | |
| In that furred, | 50 |
| Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, | |
| I was spurred | |
| Just to catch you, O my sweet, | |
| By the bodice trim and neat,— | |
| Just to feel your heart abeat, | 55 |
| Like a bird. | |
| |
| Yet, alas! Love’s light you deign | |
| But to wear | |
| As the dew upon your plumes, | |
| And you care | 60 |
| Not a whit for rest or hush; | |
| But the leaves, the lyric gush, | |
| And the wing-power, and the rush | |
| Of the air. | |
| |
| So I dare not woo you, Sweet, | 65 |
| For a day, | |
| Lest I lose you in a flash, | |
| As I may; | |
| Did I tell you tender things, | |
| You would shake your sudden wings;— | 70 |
| You would start from him who sings, | |
| And away. | |
| |
