YOU bid me hold my peace, Or so I think, you birds; you'll not forgive My kill-joy song that makes the wild song cease, Silent or fugitive. Yon thrush stopt in mid-phrase At my mere footfall; and a longer note Took wing and fled afield, and went its ways Within the blackbird's throat. Hereditary song, Illyrian lark and Paduan nightingale, Is yours, unchangeable the ages long; Assyria heard your tale; Therefore you do not die. But single, local, lonely, mortal, new, Unlike, and thus like all my race, am I, Preluding my adieu. My human song must be My human thought. Be patient till 'tis done. I shall not hold my little peace; for me There is no peace but one. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RAINBOW [IN THE SKY] by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH WRITTEN IN IRELAND by MARY (CUMBERLAND) ALCOCK THIS FLESH by KENNETH SLADE ALLING ROMANCE OF BRUNETTES AND BLONDES by JACQUES BARON VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU by NICOLAS BOILEAU-DESPREAUX CAELIA: SONNETS: 12 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) AUNT JANE by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR SHALL VERMONTERS RAISE SHEEP? by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. FROM CAVERNS DARK by EDWARD CARPENTER |