THE starling in the ivy now, For to amuse his dear, Mimics the dog, the cat, the cow, Blackbird and Chanticleer. The starling's an accomplished mime: Between his love-making He solaces her brooding-time By many a madcap thing. He is the saw, the spade, the scythe, He rings the dinner-bell; Chuckles of laughter, small and blithe, Of self-laudations tell. Now by the battle-field he mocks As though 'twere but a game, Thunder with which the belfry rocks And the great burst of flame. Till when the merriment will pall He turns to love again, Calling his love-sick gurgling call Above the dying men. Who knows what dream the starling weaves Of boyhood, soft and clean? A small room under golden eaves To which the sun looks in. The starling's talking in the thatch, Bidding the boy arise; And the door's opening on the latch To show—his mother's eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR LOVE'S SAKE, KISS ME ONCE AGAIN! by BEN JONSON VIRGILS GNAT: DEDICATORY SONNET by EDMUND SPENSER CROSSING THE BAR by ALFRED TENNYSON A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 11 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE OPEN DOOR by NETTIE STEPHENSON BOWEN LINES SUGGESTED BY A LATE OCCURRENCE by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |