Cicely Fox Smith (1882-1954 / England)
A Bird's Call
Over the upland fields, where free and strong
The fresh hill-breezes swept,
I heard a wild bird calling all day long,
Calling as if it wept.
And the wild voice brought back delights and tears
From time's forgotten hoard,
Cleaving the dead cold mist of bygone years
Like a two-edged sword.
And speech forgotten sprang up word for word,
Unfolding like a scroll
At the wild mandate of a lonely bird
Calling like a lost soul.
O sad sweet cry beneath the skies of gray!
O tale of perished years!
O everlasting hope for the new day,
The joy beyond the tears,
When we, who striving to the light must go,
Whom toils and trammels bind,
Somewhere the purport of our days shall know,
Somewhere at last shall find
God's treasure-house of lost loves found again,
Of torn hearts healed anew,
Sorrow grown joy, and pleasure after pain,
And all dear dreams come true.
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