Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/404

SONGS AND BALLADS And ruffle of thy tawny throat

For each delicious note.

—Art thou a waif from Paradise,

In some fine moment wrought

By an artist of the skies,

Thou winged, cherubic Thought?

Bird of the amber beak,

Bird of the golden wing!

Thy dower is thy carolling;

Thou hast not far to seek

Thy bread, nor needest wine

To make thine utterance divine;

Thou art canopied and clothed

And unto Song betrothed!

In thy lone aërial cage

Thou hast thine ancient heritage;

There is no task-work on thee laid

But to rehearse the ditties thou hast made;

Thou hast a lordly store,

And, though thou scatterest them free,

Art richer than before,

Holding in fee

The glad domain of minstrelsy.

III

Brave songster, bold Canary!

Thou art not of thy listeners wary,

Art not timorous, nor chary

Of quaver, trill, and tone,

Each perfect and thine own;

But renewest, shrill or soft,

Thy greeting to the upper skies,

Chanting thy latest song aloft

With no tremor or disguise.

Thine is a music that defies 374