TO A DEAD BIRD,FOUND IN THE WOODS AT EVENING.
Bird of the forest, beautiful and dead!
While in the twilight here I look on thee,
Strange fancies, of the wild life that has fled,
Dimly and sadly gather over me,
Until, above thy calm and silent sleep,
I can but bow my aching head and weep.
While in the twilight here I look on thee,
Strange fancies, of the wild life that has fled,
Dimly and sadly gather over me,
Until, above thy calm and silent sleep,
I can but bow my aching head and weep.
Alas, that when the Spring-time's here to wake
The flowers and music of thy woodland halls,
Thou whose glad voice so sweet a strain could make
In concert with the winds and water-falls,
In cold and hushed oblivion shouldst lie—
While things that suffer ask, in vain, to die!
The flowers and music of thy woodland halls,
Thou whose glad voice so sweet a strain could make
In concert with the winds and water-falls,
In cold and hushed oblivion shouldst lie—
While things that suffer ask, in vain, to die!
But, wast thou purely blest¥ Ah, who can tell
But birds may have their sorrows? It may be
That boundless love in thy small breast did dwell
For some bright, wingéd thing—that flew from thee
But birds may have their sorrows? It may be
That boundless love in thy small breast did dwell
For some bright, wingéd thing—that flew from thee
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