I hoard a little spring of secret tears, For thee, poor bird; thy death-blow was my crime: From the far past it has flow'd on for years; It never dries; it brims at swallow-time. No kindly voice within me took thy part, Till I stood o'er thy last faint flutterings; Since then, methinks, I have a gentler heart, And gaze with pity on all wounded wings. Full oft the vision of thy fallen head, Twittering in highway dust, appeals to me; Thy helpless form, as when I struck thee dead, Drops out from every swallow-flight I see. I would not have thine airy spirit laid, I seem to love the little ghost I made. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY TWO GRANDMOTHERS by IRENE ARCHER WESTWARD BOUND by BETSY H. ASHMORE BEYOND THE BAR by BEATRICE B. BEEBE THE HINDOO'S DEATH by GEORGE BIRDSEYE HOURS OF RECREATION by LEVI BISHOP |