Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/230

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bright suns dead will soon be born, And lo! the birds already make Their nests on bush, and tree, and thorn, And graze the wood, and skim the lake; Each morn a sound of wings goes by, And I arise, and hope, and fret; The swallows darken half the sky, But where's my bird?—it comes not yet.

I've known ambition since the day I saw an eagle heavenward bound Contemplate from its cloudlands grey The dusty insects of the ground. In tempests black I hear it scream, And see its beak in red blood wet, But now no more of glory dream— Ah, where's my bird?—it comes not yet.

The nightingale delights to pick A blade, or worm, or bit of bread, And hides in woods 'mid foliage thick, To sing one day; and then is dead. It sings of love—oh irony! It only wakes a vain regret; What need have I of harmony? My bird, my bird,—it comes not yet.