Classic Poem

South-heart of song
In winter drest,
Death mends thy wrong;
That is life's best.

Bird, who didst sing
From a bare bough,
Call, and what Spring
Will answer now!

And haste with her
Bud-legacy, —
O, not to share,
To take of thee!

Thy night, slow, dark,
Yet song-lit shone,
Till who did hark
Missed not the moon;

When Morning found
Thy cold, pierced breast,
'Twas she who moaned,
To thy thorn pressed.

Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn
Through whose high morn the bird sings on.