Classic Poem

The little Singer sitteth by the gate
Beneath the sun,' they said,
" With closed eyes, as one sits desolate:
And round about her head,
The birds all flutter wonderingly and wait,
Wait for their daily bread.

" What dark hath come to shadow with its gray
Her morning-sky? What drouth
Hath seized upon the blossoms in her way?
Why is her singing mouth
Dumb as the woods are dumb, a winter day, —
The birds flown to the south?

" God's Child the little Singer is; and why
Sitteth she here alone? —
The sunshine beating white from yonder sky,
The dawn to noonday grown,
The songless people passing songless by, —
The birds all hither flown?"

Her weary eyelids fluttered, flower-wise;
She raised her listless head
And looked upon them all with darkened eyes
And slowly spoke, and said,
Clear, through the scattered sweetness of bird-cries,
" One of my birds is dead."

And there was flitting, all about her face,
Of restless beating wings;
And hungry sparrows clamoured her for grace
With mellow questionings.
She spoke again, after a little space,
And spoke through flutterings.

" One of my birds hath died," she said, " and ye
Who have not seen my bird,
How should ye know how fleet his wings could be,
Or what new visions stirred
And wakened at his summer melody, —
Ye who have never heard?

" Oh, he had reached the sun in one long flight,
Had he but lived to fly!
Have I not seen him overtake the night
In yonder smiling sky?
Did not my thoughts go with him to the light,
My winged thoughts and I?

" God's Child am I, — and what to me the years?"
The little Singer said,
" Safe in my littleness, from any fears,
Because my steps are led, —
God's Child and happy, singing through my tears;
But this my bird is dead.

" Cold wings and songless throat; nay then, look ye!"
She said to them, and seemed
To reach soft-hollowed hands, for all to see,
But empty, as they deemed.
And each to each they murmured wonderingly,
" The little Singer dreamed."

" A dream, ye say? But how is it ye tell
A dream from life?" she said.
" Name it a dream, this sorrow that befell,
A dream or life instead;
But once the bird was mine, I know full well:
And now my bird is dead."

She bent her head beneath the noonday glare
In silence, weary-wise.
The birds, like snowflakes lighting unaware,
Sang clamorous replies;
Among them all, the little Singer there
Sat silent, with closed eyes.