To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring
(For Kenton)
An iron hand has stilled the throatsThat throbbed with loud and rhythmic gleeAnd dammed the flood of silver notesThat drenched the world in melody.The blosmy apple boughs are yearningFor their wild choristers' returning,But no swift wings flash through the tree.Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,Shall Silence take you in her net?And shall Death quell that radiant songWhose echo thrills the meadow yet?Burst the frail web about you clingingAnd charm Death's cruel heart with singingTill with strange tears his eyes are wet.The scented morning of the yearIs old and stale now ye are gone.No friendly songs the children hearAmong the bushes on the lawn.When babies wander out a-MayingWill ye, their bards, afar be straying?Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.Above the stars is set your nest.Through Heaven's fields ye sing and flyAnd in the trees of Heaven rest.And little children in their dreamingShall see your soft black plumage gleamingAnd smile, by your clear music blest.
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