Birds
Thy soul an ocean-bird might be —
An ocean-bird who hovers home,
Who gives her bosom to the sea,
And dips her pinions in the foam,
Who floats a moment in the flood,
Feeling the ocean-beat impart
New passion to the stormy blood
That pulses in her strenuous heart.
Anon is carried to and fro,
Poised on a cloud of purple mist,
Like a gigantic flake of snow
Melting upon an amethyst.
Thy soul an ocean-bird might be —
A daughter of the wind and wave,
Its soarings are so wild and free,
Its pathless journeys are so brave.
Also thy happy soul would seem
A humming-bird with brilliant breast,
Whose native country is a dream,
Who on a rainbow makes her nest,
Whose radiant eyes become at will
An emerald, or ruby star,
Whose slender, honey-golden bill
Is like a fairy scimitar,
And flickers through the summer hours
From morning-break to even-fall,
Piercing a million, million flowers,
And taking honey from them all.
Thy soul a humming-bird would seem,
So rarely is its plumage wrought,
So wonderfully glint and gleam
The dainty pinions of its thought.
Also thy soul might be a dove
Who dwells in silent forest glades,
And coos a gentle lay of love
Along colossal colonnades,
Who sees the sunlight's sorcery
To Paradise transform the world,
Making the lichen fleur-de-lys,
Charming the moss to ruddy gold,
Who dreams that heaven is not far,
Who fancies that its trees are high,
And mighty-shouldered surely are
The caryatids of the sky.
Meseems thy soul might be a dove,
It lives in such a sweet content,
With flowers below, and stars above,
Dreamful, and white, and innocent.
Also thy soul might be a lark
Who carols o'er the welkin's cope
Above the realm of care and cark,
A hymn of never-dying hope,
Who soaring, carols to proclaim
That life is beautiful and good,
And flutters with her wings of flame
In lonely, lyric solitude,
And feels her voice grow sweet and strong,
For all the atmosphere remote
Is germinate with joyous song
And blossoms in her fervid throat.
Meseems thy soul might be a lark,
Such melodies it can awake,
Soaring in heaven from dawn to dark,
Singing for simply singing's sake.
Bird of the sea and of the air,
Bird of the garden and the wood,
To each and all, we can compare
Thy lovely, various womanhood.
Unto thy happy life belong
The sea-bird's stormy-winged delight,
The dove's content, the skylark's song,
The humming-bird's unweary flight.
Surely thy happy soul enjoys
In dream, and thought, and deed, and word,
The song, the wing, the equipoise,
The buoyant balance of a bird.
An ocean-bird who hovers home,
Who gives her bosom to the sea,
And dips her pinions in the foam,
Who floats a moment in the flood,
Feeling the ocean-beat impart
New passion to the stormy blood
That pulses in her strenuous heart.
Anon is carried to and fro,
Poised on a cloud of purple mist,
Like a gigantic flake of snow
Melting upon an amethyst.
Thy soul an ocean-bird might be —
A daughter of the wind and wave,
Its soarings are so wild and free,
Its pathless journeys are so brave.
Also thy happy soul would seem
A humming-bird with brilliant breast,
Whose native country is a dream,
Who on a rainbow makes her nest,
Whose radiant eyes become at will
An emerald, or ruby star,
Whose slender, honey-golden bill
Is like a fairy scimitar,
And flickers through the summer hours
From morning-break to even-fall,
Piercing a million, million flowers,
And taking honey from them all.
Thy soul a humming-bird would seem,
So rarely is its plumage wrought,
So wonderfully glint and gleam
The dainty pinions of its thought.
Also thy soul might be a dove
Who dwells in silent forest glades,
And coos a gentle lay of love
Along colossal colonnades,
Who sees the sunlight's sorcery
To Paradise transform the world,
Making the lichen fleur-de-lys,
Charming the moss to ruddy gold,
Who dreams that heaven is not far,
Who fancies that its trees are high,
And mighty-shouldered surely are
The caryatids of the sky.
Meseems thy soul might be a dove,
It lives in such a sweet content,
With flowers below, and stars above,
Dreamful, and white, and innocent.
Also thy soul might be a lark
Who carols o'er the welkin's cope
Above the realm of care and cark,
A hymn of never-dying hope,
Who soaring, carols to proclaim
That life is beautiful and good,
And flutters with her wings of flame
In lonely, lyric solitude,
And feels her voice grow sweet and strong,
For all the atmosphere remote
Is germinate with joyous song
And blossoms in her fervid throat.
Meseems thy soul might be a lark,
Such melodies it can awake,
Soaring in heaven from dawn to dark,
Singing for simply singing's sake.
Bird of the sea and of the air,
Bird of the garden and the wood,
To each and all, we can compare
Thy lovely, various womanhood.
Unto thy happy life belong
The sea-bird's stormy-winged delight,
The dove's content, the skylark's song,
The humming-bird's unweary flight.
Surely thy happy soul enjoys
In dream, and thought, and deed, and word,
The song, the wing, the equipoise,
The buoyant balance of a bird.
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