Classic Poem

I HEAR in the orchestral morn,
Midst the flute, the jewsharp and the horn,
A bird with a note like a vote,
Straight and sweet from the throat;
Like the voice from the light after night:
“Bob White.”

I know 'tis the Quail calling so,
But his language is English, I know;
How human the bird with that word!
By my heart it is heard—
Like friendship by love done despite,
“Bob White.”

The friend of his youth he would find,
There's no name but his friend's on his mind,
His life is all boyhood and joy,—
What is constant as boy?—
O, my friend of the morn and the light,
Bob White!—

I roved through the stubble with thee,
Barefooted, to hawbush and tree,
By brook and by vale like the Quail;
Every day without fail
I called at thy gate early bright,
Bob White!

You answered, dear partner, my bleat,
Like the mate of the Quail from the wheat,
My heart to your halloo pursuant,
To school or to truant,
You parted from me not till night,
Bob White.

The orchards, the fields, they were ours,
And the sky and the seed and the flowers,
The farmer, not we, paid the tax;
At the sound of his axe
Low whistled our warning or fright;
“Bob White!”

Where are you, my chum, all these years?
Has the world swallowed you in its fears?
Or, mated, say, have you a flock?
Are you hen now, or cock?
Do I hear you out yonder aright,
Bob White?

If you, O, the sweet notes again,
Raise them boldly, whom ever thy hen!—
Say, “Madame, that friend was my first,
In the dawn-hour of erst,
And he called me, ere you were my sprite,
‘Bob White!’”

Then I will forget night and blight—
Do you hear how I whistle, Bob White?
O, lonely are all things in truth,
But the birds have our youth.
Say on, make me boy, set me right,
Bob White!