THE birds are singing, though it is not morn, Though in the east no rays of glory shine: Made clear by hope, their eyes and hearts divine That in the dusky twilight, day is born. Trusting they carol, though the heavens warn Their fearless joy with many a threatening sign; Though, still untinged with gold, the clouds combine, While moans the rain-fraught wind, a voice forlorn. Yes, wake me with your warbling, happy birds, That I may feel, before I see, the day; That I may muse of hope, while in my heart The notes translate themselves in gladsome words: E'en plashing rain-drops mingle with your lay, And in its harmony the wind has part. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 22 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LOCHABER NO MORE by ALLAN RAMSAY ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA by PHILLIS WHEATLEY IN SCHOOL-DAYS by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 5. ON LOVE OF PRAISE by MARK AKENSIDE |