What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
I should be glad of loneliness
And hours that go on broken wings,
A thirsty body, a tired heart
And the unchanging ache of things,
If I could make a single song
As lovely and as full of light,
As hushed and brief as a falling star
On a winter night.
At least I have loved you;
Though much went wrong,
This was good,
This was strong.
Unshaken
In spite of the going of years,
Too sure to retract,
Too proud for tears.
Let my love be the pillow
Under your head,
On your lips like a song,
To your hunger, bread.
I love to hear the little bird
Into song by morning stirred.
Provided that he doesn't sing
Before my own awakening.
A bird that wakes a fellow up,
Should have been a buttercup.
Love, you brought me everything;
I gave little —
But the beauty that I sing
May be brittle; —
May be brittle, and so might —
Now I've spoken! —
Have fallen on another's sight
And been broken!
I seldom mean a single thing
I say, or (as the phrase goes) sing;
But if it sounds both bright and true,
I like to think I think I do.
Little Robin red breast,
I hear you sing your song.
I would love to have you put it into my little cage,
Into my little mouth.
If you had not sung
Then what would I imitate,
Happy nightingale?
So this is the reed?
The very pipes for singing--
Life plays me new songs.
Wistfully from out the dawn
The crows broke across the sky!
If I could sing the song of the dawn,
The carroling word of leaf and bird
And the sun-waked fern uncurling there,
I would go lonely and would not care.
If I could sing the song of the dusk,
The stars and moon of glistening June
Lit at the foot and head of me,
The Spinner might break the thread of me.
If I could sing but the song of love.
Fill my throat with each sounding note.
Others might kiss and clasp and cling,
Mine be the lips that would sing, would sing!
Love, you have broken my wings — I cried-
And oh, the sky!
Never, never to lift me high!
Only the broken-winged can fly.
Look! — Love replied.
Love, you have shattered the songs of me
And oh, the pain!
Never, never to sing again!
Singing lives on when song is dead.
Listen! — Love said.
There is a sky for a broken wing,
That I have found;
And in the stillness after song,
There is a Sound!
Suddenly flickered a flame,
Suddenly fluttered a wing:
What, can a dead bird sing?
Somebody spoke your name.
Suddenly fluttered a wing,
Sounded a voice, the same,
Somebody spoke your name:
Oh, the remembering!
Sounded a voice, the same,
Song of the heart's wild Spring,
Oh, the remembering:
Which of us was to blame?
Song of the heart's wild Spring,
Wings that still flutter, lame,
Which of us was to blame? —
God, the slow withering!