  LO, in my path A frozen songbird lies, A victim of the sky’s Blind, elemental wrath. The stolid year Shall not in me repress The impulsive tenderness That moves a pitying tear. Life’s flutter o’er, Thy quavering heart, now still, No more shall throb and thrill, Shall love and fear no more. For thee in vain Shall Spring array the woods, In nest-safe neighborhoods:— Thou canst not build again. Did instinct fail When, from the Boreal rack, Athwart thy migrant track Hurtled the ruthless gale? A cruel nest The feather-mocking snows! And ah, what gasping throes Assailed thy dying breast! Wing-spent, alone, Adrift from every mate, Flung down by baffling fate, Thou froze to the Unknown. How saith the Word? Does He who governs all Take notice of the fall Forlorn, of thee, poor bird? And is it so His awful love divine Provides for me and mine When frore the tempests blow? Mute traveler, say, How fare we when we die, And whither do we fly Along the unseen way? Vain questionings In death’s bleak eddy whirled! What heeds the other world My broken, bleeding wings? Is life no more? Is death the final doom? Or shall the soul replume Her flight and sing and soar? Yea, surely, He Who melts my love to tears For this dead songster, hears And pities mine and me. His love must know Our sorrow, and will lift Our numbed lives from the drift Of death’s all-hushing snow. |
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