Classic Poem

'T IS not the mocking bird, whose curious note
Makes ever vocal the Floridian dark
With overplus of song; her tawny throat
Pours not such soulful strains. Yet hark, O hark!
How once again, along the enchanted air,
The music seems to wing its way to Heaven,
Like some strong soul triumphant o'er despair!
Anon, it sighs, like one by memory driven
To wretchedness, and finds not anywhere
The peace that comes not to the unforgiven.
No bird it is, but some lorn lover's flute,
Speaking a bashful passion, elsewise mute—
With sweet translation of his changeful mood,
Who breathes his soul into the hollow wood.