THE MOCKING-BIRD
Reading edition
Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul, Now here, now there In tree and air, So free and fair? Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole, Inviting the heart to some sweet goal, Like poet rare, Beyond compare. Hast thou a mind, a musical mind? Who answers “nay”? Or night or day, Thy tuneful lay Brings joy and grief; myself I find In my inmost soul left far behind; Yet I essay The wondrous way. “Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation; Nor is that all In thy charmed call; I rise, though small, To laud thy rhythmic re-creation, Thy prompt and hearty liberation Of life notes new which me enthrall, Without man’s pride, and fall. I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9] Thy kindred sweet; Palm Warbler meet Thou dost repeat, And modest, tawny Veery of the vale; Thy music upward leads, and I inhale Incense replete, In thy retreat. As in a dream I hear all tones combine In Love’s embrace; And there I see thy topmost place, O Psyche of thy race!
Mocking-bird
By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews, Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.” Sketched originally for this volume.
Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine; For this my soul must alway pine, With upturned face, For lyric grace. Quintessence of event is thine and life; What soul hath more On sea or shore, Now or afore? Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife With music, as no magic flute or fife— Tis varied lore, Forever more. Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man, Brave bird and bright; Harmonic flight Is thy delight. Whenever was it thou did’st plan Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can? Without foresight Thy runic rite. Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour, Produce thy chart, Feel thrills of heart Of thine, nor part With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower, Returning quick, possessing all thy power, With no life mart But music art; Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken, And glad bestow Rich magic flow On all below. Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen? But daring flight, until the poet pen With thee shall glow Like a sun-lit bow. More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine, As thou dost give, As I love and live, Is mine; thy nature is forever thine, But by mutation mystic, yet benign, As I with joy receive Thy varied amative, Is also mine, In God’s own shrine.