  South-heart of song In winter drest, Death mends thy wrong; That is life's best. Bird, who didst sing From a bare bough, Call, and what Spring Will answer now! And haste with her Bud-legacy,— O, not to share, To take of thee! Thy night, slow, dark, Yet song-lit shone, Till who did hark Missed not the moon; Thy cold, pierced breast, 'Twas she who moaned, To thy thorn pressed. Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn Through whose high morn the bird sings on. |
|
