  R. H. STODDARD. The maple leaves are whirled away, The depths of the great pines are stirred; Night settles on the sullen day As in its nest the mountain bird. My wandering feet go up and down, And back and forth, from town to town, Through the lone woods and by the sea, To find the bird that fled from me. I followed, and I follow yet, I have forgotten to forget. My heart goes back, but I go on, Through summer heat and winter snow; Poor heart, we are no longer one, We are divided by our woe. Go to the nest I built, and call, She may be hiding after all, The empty nest, if that remains, And leave me in the long, long rains. My sleeves with tears are always wet, I have forgotten to forget. Men know my story, but not me For such fidelity, they say, Exists not—such a man as he Exists not in the world to-day. If his light bird has flown the nest, She is no worse than all the rest; Constant they are not, only good To bill and coo, and hatch the brood. He has but one thing to regret, He has forgotten to forget. All day I see the ravens fly, I hear the sea-birds scream all night; The moon goes up and down the sky, And the sun comes in ghostly light. Leaves whirl, white flakes about me blow— Are they spring blossoms or the snow? Only my hair! Good-bye, my heart, The time has come for us to part. Be still, you will be happy yet, For death remembers to forget! |
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