So Sang an English Poet
The Spring had come, and cherry-trees were white;
The lawn was vocal with their warbled words,—
That joyful trouble of the building birds,—
A garrulous music round each nesting site;
Yet I was sad, my mind on lost delight,
On death of loved ones and on Youth grown old;
And said, as flickers rose on wings of gold:—
“So blessings brighten as they take their flight”!
Thus once an English poet, not in vain,—
Sang of the pathos of the parting pain,
His voice all tremulous with unbidden tears:
Alas! how few things of our twilight day
Grow golden as they fade from us away,—
Enaureoled by the consuming years.
The lawn was vocal with their warbled words,—
That joyful trouble of the building birds,—
A garrulous music round each nesting site;
Yet I was sad, my mind on lost delight,
On death of loved ones and on Youth grown old;
And said, as flickers rose on wings of gold:—
“So blessings brighten as they take their flight”!
Thus once an English poet, not in vain,—
Sang of the pathos of the parting pain,
His voice all tremulous with unbidden tears:
Alas! how few things of our twilight day
Grow golden as they fade from us away,—
Enaureoled by the consuming years.
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