Classic Poem

Does the mocking bird sing because he cannot sleep?
Is he singing of memories, unrestful, saddening?
Is he merely romancing to the noncommittal moon?
Is he merely repeating what I heard him sing this morning — —
a song of passion,
the song of the impassioned male, jubilant, abandoned?

For early this morning — —
even at daybreak — —
the mocking bird, hoarse with lust, woke me with a loud song.
He was perched on the topmost tassel of a pine.
Singing, singing, singing,
any song that he had ever heard, but making it lustful,
he frequently leaped from the tassel of the pine, straight into space,
to be silent only while he leaped,
and to regain his perch only to resume his impassioned singing.
His tone frequently broke with his jubilance, his abandon.

He leaped.
He sang.
He sang all day.

But tonight the song seems hesitant, subdued.
Tonight the songs steals out from the black of a cedar.
Is the singer himself subdued because, perchance, he sang all day to space?

Is he drowsy rather than subdued?
Is the singer alone in the cedar?