The Tree of the Bird

I sat beneath a tree in a wide park,
There was a lark, a bard of ecstasy,
Who sang among the leaves of his beWed:
— "Thou art most fair, O, my beloved,"' said he,
"None can with thee compare,
Thy flight is with the stars and with the wind,
And thou art kind,
O, my most well-beloved"
— Such was his minstrelsy.

The mellow evening sun trod to a hill
Far off and blue,
But I was too enraptured with the skill
Of that young songster, and the still
Slow rustling of the boughs
To heed how far the sun had stepped
Unto his western house,
Whereto
At evening he must turn again his brightness to renew.

There came to me a languor sad,
The sacred peace which Adam had
When in the morning after he
Had been expelled to misery
He wakened with his bride,
And cried his thanks and praise to God
For trees and dew and birds that flew,
For sun and breeze and cloudy sails
Which he aforetime knew and loved in Eden's vales.

He did a moment furthermore
Outpour his many patterned song,
Down to the ground and up to the sky,
About, around, an ecstasy,
A sheer and sweet swift rush along;
It failed and ceased, and then he threw
His pinions wide,
Away he flew,
Because he could no longer bide
Away from her he glorified.

A little wind from out of space
Breathed softly on my face,
The gray and peaceful evening stole
Around the tree, till branch and bole
Were lost, and there remained to me
Nothing at all to hear or see
But this —
A bliss, a happiness,
A song that came like a caress,
A memory, no more — which you,
My friend, are very welcome to.

The Hill of Vision [1912]