YOU bid me hold my peace, Or so I think, you birds; you'll not forgive My kill-joy song that makes the wild song cease, Silent or fugitive. Yon thrush stopt in mid-phrase At my mere footfall; and a longer note Took wing and fled afield, and went its ways Within the blackbird's throat. Hereditary song, Illyrian lark and Paduan nightingale, Is yours, unchangeable the ages long; Assyria heard your tale; Therefore you do not die. But single, local, lonely, mortal, new, Unlike, and thus like all my race, am I, Preluding my adieu. My human song must be My human thought. Be patient till 'tis done. I shall not hold my little peace; for me There is no peace but one. |