Bon soir, bon soir, Monsieur Pol!
For they tell me now you are dead.
Go, then; and peace to your soul,
And warm like a nest be your bed,—
A warm, well-feathered, well-weathered nest,
To give rest to the bird-wise head!
In the place of the Tuileries
It is eleven by the clock,
And the birds wait in the trees,—
They wait; but you do not come.
The small beaks sharpen and knock
On the boughs, and the quick throats trill,
And the bad little voices scold
Their lover because he is late
With the crumbs which he used to spill
In the pathway where other passed,—
Because, in service grown old,
He has failed them at last!
Hark, how they chatter and fret
And complain!—mate clamours to mate,
Crying aloud for the crumbs
Which you gave, which they ate:
Day goes, another day comes;—
Another: when will they forget?
A week, may it be, or a moon,
Or will it run on to a year,
Till the world is again in tune,
And the gardens all full of song—
Babblers begging a boon?
Will the legend of you last so long,
Will the tale be told to their young,
When you no longer appear?
Sweetly a story is told
How birds as they cross the brine,
Bound for the far-off land,—
Veering away to the west
Out of the southward line—
Come to a watery shoal
Sunk in a sea of glass:
No place for a foot to stand.
They poise, they hover and quest
This way and that; but in vain!—
There can they find no rest,—
There having come, they pass.
But because in the days of old
Just there a rock rose dry
For hungry claws to take hold
And tired wings cease to fly,—
There, again and again,
They come; and the years pass by.
So, to the Tuileries,
Shall not the birds still come
When morning clocks strike eleven,
To sit and wait in the trees
For the legendary crumb,
And listen while old birds tell
Their tale which the tolling bell
Ever brings back to mind:
How to the ways of earth,—
Wingless, grey-haired, and kind
To them in their feathered mirth,
Came daily with hands outspread
A gentle Angel from Heaven,
Who was known in the breaking of bread?
And you, Monsieur Pol,—you too,—
Have you a ghost that can walk?
Have you an ear that can hear
Your songsters who prattle and talk
Of you—still of you—still of you?
Is there no room in the grave
For the seeing mind to remember
How boldly they used to behave
In spring, but how in December,
Cowed by the winter's cold,
When the sap of life ran dry,
When the little bodies were old,
And the wings too weak to fly,
They would come at your feet to lie,
So sure you would understand:—
“See me, see how I die!
O friend, reach me a hand!”
And you would gather and fold,
And gently bear them away
From the bitter perishing cold
And blast of the winter's day,
To a corner remote and calm
By the side of your own fire;
And there in a hollowed palm—
With charity filled like balm—
Give them their hearts' desire.
O gentle lover of birds,
Out of your place of rest
Throw to the world a crumb
Of the love that was in your breast,—
The love you bore for the dumb,
The compassion you had for the weak,
The broken, the frail, the meek,
When daily you used to come!
Man has learned how to fly!
His gods have given him wings,
And between them a heart of hate,
With a roaring fire for breath
To obey the bidding of kings:
And out of a storm-rent sky,
And over a stricken earth,
He leavens the land with dearth;
Wherever he goes he stings,
And his droppings are bolts of death!
Unto his hand hath come
The fruit of a thousand sowings;
This is the feast he makes
Out of the grain he hath strown;
So now he beholds the sum
Of all his comings and goings;
Now in the bread he breaks
His kingdom on earth is known.
But when the Judgment comes,
And the Trumpet of Life is blown.
Surely you will arise
And stand among saints without shame.
Then shall the rabble and rout
Of the dead,—the slayer, the slain—
Watch you, patient and meek,
Gentle, tender, and wise,
Empty your pocket of crumbs,
Scattering food to your own,
Filling the hungry beak,
Calling your birds by name,
Choosing, and leading them out;—
There, with the banquet spread,
Unto your lovers made known
Once more in the breaking of bread.
For they tell me now you are dead.
Go, then; and peace to your soul,
And warm like a nest be your bed,—
A warm, well-feathered, well-weathered nest,
To give rest to the bird-wise head!
In the place of the Tuileries
It is eleven by the clock,
And the birds wait in the trees,—
They wait; but you do not come.
The small beaks sharpen and knock
On the boughs, and the quick throats trill,
And the bad little voices scold
Their lover because he is late
With the crumbs which he used to spill
In the pathway where other passed,—
Because, in service grown old,
He has failed them at last!
Hark, how they chatter and fret
And complain!—mate clamours to mate,
Crying aloud for the crumbs
Which you gave, which they ate:
Day goes, another day comes;—
Another: when will they forget?
A week, may it be, or a moon,
Or will it run on to a year,
Till the world is again in tune,
And the gardens all full of song—
Babblers begging a boon?
Will the legend of you last so long,
Will the tale be told to their young,
When you no longer appear?
Sweetly a story is told
How birds as they cross the brine,
Bound for the far-off land,—
Veering away to the west
Out of the southward line—
Come to a watery shoal
Sunk in a sea of glass:
No place for a foot to stand.
They poise, they hover and quest
This way and that; but in vain!—
There can they find no rest,—
There having come, they pass.
But because in the days of old
Just there a rock rose dry
For hungry claws to take hold
And tired wings cease to fly,—
There, again and again,
They come; and the years pass by.
So, to the Tuileries,
Shall not the birds still come
When morning clocks strike eleven,
To sit and wait in the trees
For the legendary crumb,
And listen while old birds tell
Their tale which the tolling bell
Ever brings back to mind:
How to the ways of earth,—
Wingless, grey-haired, and kind
To them in their feathered mirth,
Came daily with hands outspread
A gentle Angel from Heaven,
Who was known in the breaking of bread?
And you, Monsieur Pol,—you too,—
Have you a ghost that can walk?
Have you an ear that can hear
Your songsters who prattle and talk
Of you—still of you—still of you?
Is there no room in the grave
For the seeing mind to remember
How boldly they used to behave
In spring, but how in December,
Cowed by the winter's cold,
When the sap of life ran dry,
When the little bodies were old,
And the wings too weak to fly,
They would come at your feet to lie,
So sure you would understand:—
“See me, see how I die!
O friend, reach me a hand!”
And you would gather and fold,
And gently bear them away
From the bitter perishing cold
And blast of the winter's day,
To a corner remote and calm
By the side of your own fire;
And there in a hollowed palm—
With charity filled like balm—
Give them their hearts' desire.
O gentle lover of birds,
Out of your place of rest
Throw to the world a crumb
Of the love that was in your breast,—
The love you bore for the dumb,
The compassion you had for the weak,
The broken, the frail, the meek,
When daily you used to come!
Man has learned how to fly!
His gods have given him wings,
And between them a heart of hate,
With a roaring fire for breath
To obey the bidding of kings:
And out of a storm-rent sky,
And over a stricken earth,
He leavens the land with dearth;
Wherever he goes he stings,
And his droppings are bolts of death!
Unto his hand hath come
The fruit of a thousand sowings;
This is the feast he makes
Out of the grain he hath strown;
So now he beholds the sum
Of all his comings and goings;
Now in the bread he breaks
His kingdom on earth is known.
But when the Judgment comes,
And the Trumpet of Life is blown.
Surely you will arise
And stand among saints without shame.
Then shall the rabble and rout
Of the dead,—the slayer, the slain—
Watch you, patient and meek,
Gentle, tender, and wise,
Empty your pocket of crumbs,
Scattering food to your own,
Filling the hungry beak,
Calling your birds by name,
Choosing, and leading them out;—
There, with the banquet spread,
Unto your lovers made known
Once more in the breaking of bread.