A soaring shadow and a hoarse wild cry When evening drops and cool airs drift and climb From brown Witch Water. But one thrilling time He suffered our espial patiently, Perched on a neighboring shrub, a trim dark shape Collared with chestnut; his observant eye Admonished brief respectful scrutiny. A flash -- and he had made his swift escape. We listen for his sudden startling word From high green chambers in our towering trees. We ponder on his unsolved absences. For us no lesser sweeter minstrel fills This austere lodger's place. We miss the bird. No goldfinch gossip and no bubbling thrills Of owls at night, no mellow oriole flute Enchants us like the bittern's brusque salute. Where does he spend that passionate interlude, Scorning our runnel for some fen-land strange Where he may build and woo and feed and range, Weaving the idyl of the mate and brood? When autumn suns with waning ardor burn On the light rime of dawn -- grim, taciturn, Wise in the lore of freshets and the wrack Of mighty winds unleashed -- will he come back? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR: 6. A WIFE WAITS by THOMAS HARDY THE LORDS OF THE MAIN by JOSEPH STANSBURY IMPRESSION DU MATIN by OSCAR WILDE THE FROGS: A 'EURIPIDEAN' CHORUS by ARISTOPHANES INSCRIPTION IN NETHER STOREY CHURCH IN MEMORY OF RICHARD CAMPLIN by WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES |