Ah, bird, our love is never spent with your clear note, nor satiate our soul; not song, not wail, not hurt, but just a call summons us with its simple top-note and soft fall; not to some rarer heaven of lilies over-tall, nor tuberose set against some sun-lit wall, but to a gracious cedar-palace hall; not marble set with purple hung with roses and tall sweet liliessuch as the nightingale would summon for us with her wail– (surely only unhappiness could thrill such a rich madrigal!) not she, the nightingale can fill our souls with such a wistful joy as this: nor, bird, so sweet was ever a swallow note not hers, so perfect with the wing of lazuli and bright breast nor yet the oriole filling with melody from her fiery throat some island-orchard in a purple sea. [Page 26] Ah dear, ah gentle bird, you spread warm length of crimson wool and tinted woven stuff for us to rest upon, nor numb with ecstasy nor drown with death: only you soothe, make still the throbbing of our brain: so through her forest trees, when all her hope was gone and all her pain, Calypso heard your call across the gathering drift of burning cedar-wood, across the low-set bed of wandering parsley and violet, when all her hope was dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING WHEN THE KYE CAME HOME by JAMES HOGG WRITTEN IN KEATS' 'ENDYMION' by THOMAS HOOD SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH DARDANELLES by THEODORE AUBANEL LOST THREADS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: ANTARA by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |