A
BALLADE OF PHILOMELA
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From
gab of jay and chatter of crake
The dusk wood covered me utterly.
And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.
Flame-floods out of the low bright
sky
Lighted the gloom with gold-brown
dye,
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Before
dark; and a manifold chorussing
Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,—
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
Midmost a close green covert of brake
A brown bird listening silently
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Sat;
and I thought—“She grieves for the sake
Of Itylus,—for the stains
that lie
In her heritage of sad memory.”
But the thrushes were hushed at evening.
Then I waited to hear the brown
bird try,—
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the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
And I said—“The thought of the thrushes
will shake
With rapture remembered her
heart; and her shy
Tongue of the dear times dead will take
To make her a living song, when
sigh
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The
soft night winds disburthened by.
Hark now!”—for the upraised quivering
wing,
The throat exultant, I could descry,—
And the tongue of the singer needs must sing!
L’ENVOI.
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25 |
But
the bird dropped dead with only a cry.
I found its tongue was withered,
poor thing!
Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I
That the heart of the singer will
break or sing.
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