Page:May-day and other pieces, Emerson, 1867.djvu/49

Rh Singing by the oriole songs,

Heart of bird the man's heart seeking;

Whispering hints of treasure hid

Under Morn's unlifted lid,

Islands looming just beyond

The dim horizon's utmost bound;—

Who can, like thee, our rags upbraid,

Or taunt us with our hope decayed?

Or who like thee persuade,

Making the splendor of the air,

The morn and sparkling dew, a snare?

Or who resent

Thy genius, wiles, and blandishment?

There is no orator prevails

To beckon or persuade

Like thee the youth or maid:

Thy birds, thy songs, thy brooks, thy gales,

Thy blooms, thy kinds,