TO MY CANARY BIRD
BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes,Impassioned little minstrel of the cage,My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats,Unheedful of the clamor and the rageOf storms that menace ruin as they pass,Impatient for the freedom of the plain,Crusted and polished like a sea of glass,Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.There is no touch of winter in thy song,No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend;All beauties of the Spring to thee belong,All bloomy charms and all the scents that lendA drowsy gladness to the summer hours.Again I hear swift rivulets descendThe mountain slopes, like children loosed from school;Again I see the lily on the pool,And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.Not only through the golden hours of day,From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite,Do thy delicious trills and quavers strayAround the quiet chamber where I write,But often in the slumbrous hush of night,When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,And at the outer portal louder rap;My songster hears you not: a higher note,A more reverbant, more delirious strain,Issues exultant from his quivering throat,And reaches to the people on the street,Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again,Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.O that thou couldst to me this hour impartThe secret of thy unremitting joy!The music that dilates thy little heartNo frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy.Here, seated listless in my easy chair,I can but yield to phantasy and dream,And gird my spirit with a jewelled beamOf soft enchantment, hopeful that a shareOf thy divine emotion, happy bird,By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred,May slip into my verse and warble there.
BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes,Impassioned little minstrel of the cage,My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats,Unheedful of the clamor and the rageOf storms that menace ruin as they pass,Impatient for the freedom of the plain,Crusted and polished like a sea of glass,Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.There is no touch of winter in thy song,No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend;All beauties of the Spring to thee belong,All bloomy charms and all the scents that lendA drowsy gladness to the summer hours.Again I hear swift rivulets descendThe mountain slopes, like children loosed from school;Again I see the lily on the pool,And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.Not only through the golden hours of day,From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite,Do thy delicious trills and quavers strayAround the quiet chamber where I write,But often in the slumbrous hush of night,When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,And at the outer portal louder rap;My songster hears you not: a higher note,A more reverbant, more delirious strain,Issues exultant from his quivering throat,And reaches to the people on the street,Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again,Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.O that thou couldst to me this hour impartThe secret of thy unremitting joy!The music that dilates thy little heartNo frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy.Here, seated listless in my easy chair,I can but yield to phantasy and dream,And gird my spirit with a jewelled beamOf soft enchantment, hopeful that a shareOf thy divine emotion, happy bird,By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred,May slip into my verse and warble there.
BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes,Impassioned little minstrel of the cage,My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats,Unheedful of the clamor and the rageOf storms that menace ruin as they pass,Impatient for the freedom of the plain,Crusted and polished like a sea of glass,Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.
BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes,
Impassioned little minstrel of the cage,
My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats,
Unheedful of the clamor and the rage
Of storms that menace ruin as they pass,
Impatient for the freedom of the plain,
Crusted and polished like a sea of glass,
Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain.
There is no touch of winter in thy song,No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend;All beauties of the Spring to thee belong,All bloomy charms and all the scents that lendA drowsy gladness to the summer hours.Again I hear swift rivulets descendThe mountain slopes, like children loosed from school;Again I see the lily on the pool,And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.
There is no touch of winter in thy song,
No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend;
All beauties of the Spring to thee belong,
All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend
A drowsy gladness to the summer hours.
Again I hear swift rivulets descend
The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school;
Again I see the lily on the pool,
And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers.
Not only through the golden hours of day,From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite,Do thy delicious trills and quavers strayAround the quiet chamber where I write,But often in the slumbrous hush of night,When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.
Not only through the golden hours of day,
From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite,
Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray
Around the quiet chamber where I write,
But often in the slumbrous hush of night,
When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing,
On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing,
Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring,
As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight.
Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,And at the outer portal louder rap;My songster hears you not: a higher note,A more reverbant, more delirious strain,Issues exultant from his quivering throat,And reaches to the people on the street,Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again,Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.
Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap,
Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips;
Press hard against the pane your whitened lips,
And at the outer portal louder rap;
My songster hears you not: a higher note,
A more reverbant, more delirious strain,
Issues exultant from his quivering throat,
And reaches to the people on the street,
Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again,
Retiring slowly with unwilling feet.
O that thou couldst to me this hour impartThe secret of thy unremitting joy!The music that dilates thy little heartNo frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy.Here, seated listless in my easy chair,I can but yield to phantasy and dream,And gird my spirit with a jewelled beamOf soft enchantment, hopeful that a shareOf thy divine emotion, happy bird,By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred,May slip into my verse and warble there.
O that thou couldst to me this hour impart
The secret of thy unremitting joy!
The music that dilates thy little heart
No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy.
Here, seated listless in my easy chair,
I can but yield to phantasy and dream,
And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam
Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share
Of thy divine emotion, happy bird,
By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred,
May slip into my verse and warble there.