THE starling in the ivy now, For to amuse his dear, Mimics the dog, the cat, the cow, Blackbird and Chanticleer. The starling's an accomplished mime: Between his love-making He solaces her brooding-time By many a madcap thing. He is the saw, the spade, the scythe, He rings the dinner-bell; Chuckles of laughter, small and blithe, Of self-laudations tell. Now by the battle-field he mocks As though 'twere but a game, Thunder with which the belfry rocks And the great burst of flame. Till when the merriment will pall He turns to love again, Calling his love-sick gurgling call Above the dying men. Who knows what dream the starling weaves Of boyhood, soft and clean? A small room under golden eaves To which the sun looks in. The starling's talking in the thatch, Bidding the boy arise; And the door's opening on the latch To show—his mother's eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRAISE FOR AN URN; IN MEMORIAM: ERNEST NELSON by HAROLD HART CRANE TWO AT A FIRESIDE by EDWIN MARKHAM A THOUGHT FOR A LONELY DEATH-BED by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE GIFT by MARGARET E. BRUNER |