THOUGH the voice of modern schools

By the dreamy Asian creed

That the souls of men, released

From their bodies when deceased,

Sometimes enter in a beast,—

I have watched you long, Avice,—

I have found your secret out;

That the restless ribboned things,

Where your slope of shoulder springs,

Are but undeveloped wings,

When you enter in a room,

With the wayward, flashing flight

And you speak—and bring with your

Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue,

And the wind-breath and the dew,

When you called to me my name,

When I heard your single cry

All the sound was as the “sweet”

Which the birds to birds repeat

In their thank-song to the heat

When you sang the Schwalbenlied,—

But it seemed no human note

For your strain had all the trills,

All the little shakes and stills,

Of the over-song that rills

You have just their eager, quick

All their flush and fever-heat

Every bird-like nod and beck,

And a bird’s own curve of neck

When she gives a little peck

When you left me, only now,

Puffed, and feathered Polish dress,

Just to catch you, O my sweet,

By the bodice trim and neat,—

Just to feel your heart-a-beat,

Yet alas! Love’s light you deign

As the dew upon your plumes,

Not a whit for rest or hush;

But the leaves, the lyric gush,

And the wing-power, and the rush

So I dare not woo you, sweet,

Lest I lose you in a flash,

Did I tell you tender things,

You would shake your sudden wings;—

You would start from him who sings,