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TO A DEAD BIRD,
And was thy all of joy, or grief, on earth?
Or art thou gone to try thy wing anew
Where lovelier roses have their happier birth,
And woods are ever green, skies ever blue,
And breezy music gushes rich and warm,
With not a sigh, or whisper of the storm?
Or art thou gone to try thy wing anew
Where lovelier roses have their happier birth,
And woods are ever green, skies ever blue,
And breezy music gushes rich and warm,
With not a sigh, or whisper of the storm?
. . . Fit mausoleum is this hollow tree,
With faded leaves to pillow thy bright head;
And, if such rest is all that's left for thee,
Methinks it is enough, sweet singer dead!
For winds will sing and buds will burst above,
And I'll believe they left thee here with love!
With faded leaves to pillow thy bright head;
And, if such rest is all that's left for thee,
Methinks it is enough, sweet singer dead!
For winds will sing and buds will burst above,
And I'll believe they left thee here with love!
