THE baby sings not on its mother's breast; Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; Nor I by thine: but let us only part, Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, As having uttered all, must speak again -- Oh stunted thoughts! Oh chill and fettered rhyme! Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, Losing its proper home, can find no rest: So, like a child who whiles away the time With dance and carol till the eventide, Watching its mother homeward through the glen; Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, Tells to his listening mate within the nest The wonder of his star-entranced heart Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill -- Forth all my being bubbles into song; And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR PASSWORD by ISIDORE G. ASCHER A FUNERAL CHANT FOR THE OLD YEAR by E. JUSTINE BAYARD A WEEK IN A BOY'S LIFE by JACQUES BOE THE GOOD SAMARITAN by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD DOVECOTT MILL: 1. THE HOMESTEAD by PHOEBE CARY SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ by WILLIAM COWPER |