The Forest Bird
When thou sing thine song, thou forest bird dear,
What joy and sadness or whisper, tells thine breast?
Of what world, that men’s heart do yet, revere,
Oft which canst be heard, from thine lonely nest?
As mine I sing, which oft I canst thou tell;
For oft it lies to me, ‘nd in darkness fell.
Oh! Sweet forest bird, thou sing songs of thee,
Though may not as sweet as of th’ Orpheus
Forgone, yet fore’er from parting be free,
As angels from the eve of heaven gracious.
For when I hear thine song in a sweet morn,
Thou do say: “No bard is an age’s born”
As all the morns ever came and to come,
Through all ages passed, forgotten and new,
To summer, to spring and to fair autumn.
Thou and thine song never sing thine adieu;
“‘Tis not an age that gives a poet birth,
‘Tis the poet fore’er, brings age on earth.”
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