IN THE QUIET DAYS

As through the forest, disarrayed

By chill November, late I strayed,

A lonely minstrel of the wood

Was singing to the solitude

I loved thy music, thus I said,

When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread

Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now

Thy carol on the leafless bough.

Sing, little bird! thy note shall cheer

The sadness of the dying year.

When violets pranked the turf with blue

And morning filled their cups with dew,

Thy slender voice with rippling trill

The budding April bowers would fill,

Nor passed its joyous tones away

When April rounded into May:

Thy life shall hail no second dawn,—

Sing, little bird! the spring is gone.

And I remember — well-a-day!—

Thy full-blown summer roundelay,

As when behind a broidered screen

Some holy maiden sings unseen

With answering notes the woodland rung,

And every tree-top found a tongue.

How deep the shade! the groves how fair!

Sing, little bird! the woods are bare.

The summer's throbbing chant is done

And mute the choral antiphon;

The birds have left the shivering pines

To flit among the trellised vines,

Or fan the air with scented plumes

Amid the love-sick orange-blooms,

And thou art here alone,— alone,—

Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.

The snow has capped yon distant hill,

At morn the running brook was still,

From driven herds the clouds that rise

Are like the smoke of sacrifice;

Erelong the frozen sod shall mock

The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock,

The brawling streams shall soon be dumb,—

Sing, little bird! the frosts have come.

Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep,

The songless fowls are half asleep,

The air grows chill, the setting sun

May leave thee ere thy song is done,

The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold,

Thy secret die with thee, untold

The lingering sunset still is bright,—

Sing, little bird!‘ t will soon be night.