Classic Poem

Crimson lute that comest in the dawn
with doleful ditty to thy cherished mate
and in the amber of the nutrient rose
stainest coral red thy golden beak.

Gentle goldfinch, birdling born to sorrow,
that scarce didst glimpse the lovely break of day
when, at the first note of thy melody,
thou wast by death received, by song abandoned.

In life there is no sure lot, verily;
with thine own voice thou callest on the hunter
that he fail not to strike thee with his shaft.

Oh dreaded destiny and yet pursued!
Oh passing belief that thine own life should be,
rather than silent, privy to thy death!