Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SUN OF MY SONGS, by THEOPHILE JULIUS HENRY MARZIALS


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SUN OF MY SONGS, by                    
First Line: The birds are all a-singing
Last Line: "bursting into blossoming."
Alternate Author Name(s): Marzials, Theo; Marzials, Theophile Jules Henri
Subject(s): Birds; Death; Seasons; Singing & Singers; Sun; Dead, The


The birds are all a-singing,
The skies are mad with winging;
And quick the seed-shells crackle, crickle, crackling up the earth;
The blossoms are thick in the trees,
The pleasance is crowded with bees;
The fountain up-leaps, the anemones
Are shrill with the crickets in mirth.

And under her window I waited; --
Alas! she was still in bed!
My spring was all belated --
My sun is her golden head;
And all my song
Was: "Ding, dong,
Summer is dead,
Spring is dead,
Winter is groaning along,
The birds are singing all wrong;
I would I were dead!"
From out her dreams she drifted,
The coverlet quick lifted,
And lithe her white-rose body uncurl'd from her snow-white smock,
And tall at the window, and fair,
She combed her golden hair, --

So fair -- I would I were there, I were there,
To dazzle me dead in each lock!

"O madman, a dev'l to your dirging;
For spring's in the earth and the sky;
The rivers and meads are all surging
With red bud-coifs thrown by;
And every flower is shaking her head,
A-sheveling her hair on a green leaf-bed,
And making her comely and meet to be wed
Yet all your song
Is -- 'Ding, dong,
Summer is dead,
Spring is dead --
O my heart, and O my head!
Go a-singing a silly song,
All wrong,
For all is dead,
Ding, dong
And I am dead,
Dong!'

. . . . . . . . .

"O gold my sun up-waking,
Your curtain-clouds a-breaking,
Like runnels, rustling trees and merles, my songs out-sing your spring;
I'll sing of the warm blush-rose,
And mellow the honey that flows
I' the bud that ripe to a full mouth blows,
Or white the bloom-blossom with love that glows,
And the gold-hair'd sun that makes me to sing.

"And yet to your honour I'll twine
A garland fresh and fine;
And all the flowers that I shall pluck,
The sweetest that bees suck,
Shall be these songs of mine.
Oh! such songs for me to sing,
Ding, dong,
Summer along,
And spring;
All along, long life along --
After death they still shall sing,
Like to seeds of winter-thinking,
All their bud-shells crankle-crinking,
Shooting into summer song,
Bursting into blossoming."





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