ERE last year's moon had left the sky, A birdling sought my Indian nest, And folded, O, so lovingly, Her tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, In winsome helplessness she lies, Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe, Shut softly on her starry eves. There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest; O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters nevermore shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing, This seeming visitant from Heaven, This bird with the immortal wing, To me -- to me, Thy hand has given. The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, The blood its crimson hue, from mine; -- This life, which I have dared invoke, Henceforth is parallel with Thine. A silent awe is in my room -- I tremble with delicious fear; The future, with its light and gloom, Time and Eternity, are here. Doubts -- hopes, in eager tumult rise; Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer: Room for my bird in Paradise, And give her angel plumage there! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BRAVE OLD OAK by HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by ROBERT FROST FAUST: SCENE 1. PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE WHEN THE COWS COME HOME by AGNES E. MITCHELL FESTE'S SONG (2), FR. TWELFTH NIGHT by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |