Classic Poem

WHEREIN A GRIEVING BIRD REMINDS HIM OF HIS OWN HEAVIER ANGUISH

Sweet wandering bird, that on the branch you swing to
Pour such impartial music or in phrases
Darkened with imminent winter mourn dead graces
As song dies with the summer that you sing to —
Ah could you guess the bitter bough I cling to,
Your golden grief would find in mine clear traces
Of kinship! In my heart your singing space is;
One song is ours, one measure we both ring to.
And yet who knows? The grief you give a name to
May not endure: some bough she could not leap to,
A bruised wing, maybe, holds the mate you weep to;
Not so my theme, my sweet I pour this flame to:
Death and this bleak day, thoughts my soul must keep to,
Prompt me to call what Death alone has claim to.