THE baby sings not on its mother's breast; Nor nightingales who nestle side by side; Nor I by thine: but let us only part, Then lips which should but kiss, and so be still, As having uttered all, must speak again -- Oh stunted thoughts! Oh chill and fettered rhyme! Yet my great bliss, though still entirely blest, Losing its proper home, can find no rest: So, like a child who whiles away the time With dance and carol till the eventide, Watching its mother homeward through the glen; Or nightingale, who, sitting far apart, Tells to his listening mate within the nest The wonder of his star-entranced heart Till all the wakened woodlands laugh and thrill -- Forth all my being bubbles into song; And rings aloft, not smooth, yet clear and strong. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 4 by THOMAS CAMPION DIBDIN'S GHOST by EUGENE FIELD A SONG TO DAVID by CHRISTOPHER SMART TO ANACREON by ANTIPATER OF SIDON A WOMAN'S SONNETS: 11 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE FIRST SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |