IT'S little I can tell About the birds in books; And yet I know them well, By their music and their looks: When May comes down the lane, Her airy lovers throng To welcome her with song, And follow in her train: Each minstrel weaves his part In that wild-flowery strain, And I know them all again By their echo in my heart. It's little that I care About my darling's place In books of beauty rare, Or heraldries of race: For when she steps in view, It matters not to me What her sweet type may be, Of woman, old or new. I can't explain the art, But I know her for my own, Because her lightest tone Wakes an echo in my heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE'S MIRACLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MARY'S GIRLHOOD (FOR A PICTURE): 1 by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AT THE CARNIVAL by ANNE SPENCER SONNET: YE POETS by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE FOUR ZOAS: NIGHTS THE FIRST AND SECOND by WILLIAM BLAKE ELEGY ON A LADY, WHOM GRIEF FOR THE DEATH OF HER BETHROTHED KILLED by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES |