I hoard a little spring of secret tears, For thee, poor bird; thy death-blow was my crime: From the far past it has flow'd on for years; It never dries; it brims at swallow-time. No kindly voice within me took thy part, Till I stood o'er thy last faint flutterings; Since then, methinks, I have a gentler heart, And gaze with pity on all wounded wings. Full oft the vision of thy fallen head, Twittering in highway dust, appeals to me; Thy helpless form, as when I struck thee dead, Drops out from every swallow-flight I see. I would not have thine airy spirit laid, I seem to love the little ghost I made. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: A ROCOCO STUDY (FIRST VERSION) by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SUNKEN GOLD by EUGENE JACOB LEE-HAMILTON THE ROPEWALK by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ODE FOR THE AMERICAN DEAD IN ASIA by THOMAS MCGRATH |