Page:An epic of women and other poems (IA epicofwomenother00osha).pdf/27

 III.

THE CYPRESS.

O Ivory bird, that shakest thy wan plumes, And dost forget the sweetness of thy throat For a most strange and melancholy note— That wilt forsake the summer and the blooms And go to winter in a place remote!

The country where thou goest, Ivory bird! It hath no pleasant nesting-place for thee; There are no skies nor flowers fair to see, Nor any shade at noon—as I have heard— But the black shadow of the Cypress tree.