THERE stood a tree beside his boyhood's door That faced the west, and often, just before The sundown, seemed transfigured with the light That flooded in, and keen upon his sight Burned images of flame. And from the tree Fluted a nameless bird so goldenly He seemed part of the sunset and the sky. The listener has listened for that cry Of love and longing many a weary time And heard it never, nor can mortal rhyme Encompass all its sweetness; could the place, The homely homestead and the subtle grace Of youth return, the magic moment when The western sun shows heaven to earth-doomed men, But transiently, perchance the chanting bird Would be there too, perchance his voice were heard. The listener listens vainly; song is rife Still in the world, still love illumines life; But he would give the all of after years, Its triumphs, wisdoms, and revealing tears, To hear that little bird-soul from its nest Leap into lyric rapture, sink to rest, Youth in the air and sunset in the west. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THURSDAY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS HER DILEMMA; IN CHURCH by THOMAS HARDY IN THIS AGE OF HARD TRYING, NONCHALANCE IS GOOD AND by MARIANNE MOORE COWLEY: THE GARDEN by ALEXANDER POPE COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE MASTER BLACKSMITH by ARNOLD ANDREWS |