Page:Poems, Volume 1, Coates, 1916.djvu/49



ARK! Do I dream? Nay, even now I heard

The whitethroat's music, tremulous yet clear:

The very plaint, O lonely bird,

That often midst the greening woods hath stirred

My heart; but never here!

This is the City! High above the street,

Before my window singing in the dawn,

By what imagination dost thou cheat

Thy hope to utter melody so sweet,

Far from thy groves withdrawn?

Thy tones transport me, wistful, to the North,

Seeming to lay a touch upon my brow

Cool as the balsam-laden airs that now

Through pine-woods blow: they woo my spirit forth—

Forth of the town—forth of myself. But thou?

Dost thou an exile wander from thy home

Or art thou hast'ning thither?