Classic Poem

TO —

Late bird, who singest now alone
When woods are silent and the sea
Breathes heavily and makes a moan,
Faint prescience of woe to be, —
A sweetness hovers in thy voice
Spring knows not; autumn is thy choice.

Dear bird, what tender song is thine,
Born out of loss and nursed in storm;
A messenger of grace divine
Enshrouded in thy feathery form!
So com'st thou, darling, with the close
Of summer, lovelier than her rose.