Page:The marshlands; and, The trail of the tide. -- by Herbin, John Frederic.djvu/63

 RETURN. Giving once more to my ear thy richest old-time singing ; Making the silence stir ; making the day-soul beat. When on the ledge's breast the tidal heart is lulling, Mid-day biding near, flushed with its own display ; When the lake is waveless, and lilies droop for culling, Yet will thy note be sweet and joyfully fill the day. Speech awake that was dead ; a word come back that was spoken ; Love retold with a hope that brightens when almost gone ; So came thy early song like a strain from a string that was broken, Stirring the dull of night with the hastening flow of dawn. Calm with the truth of life, deep with the love of loving, New, yet never unknown, my heart takes up the tune. Singing that needs no words, joy that needs no proving, Basking in one long dream as Summer bides with June. Often I listen and wonder, when gently thy warble is ended. Whether a language is truer than the strains of a bird- made song.