THE REDBIRD

Among the white haw-blossoms, where the creek

Droned under drifts of dogwood and of haw,

The redbird, like a crimson blossom blown

Against the snow-white bosom of the Spring,

The chaste confusion of her lawny breast,

Sang on, prophetic of serener days,

As confident as June's completer hours.

And I stood listening like a hind, who hears

A wood nymph breathing in a forest flute

Among the beech-boles of myth-haunted ways:

And when it ceased, the memory of the air

Blew like a syrinx in my brain: I made

A lyric of the notes that men might know:

He flies with flirt and fluting —

As flies a crimson star

From flaming star-beds shooting —

From where the roses are.

Wings past and sings; and seven

Notes, wild as fragrance is,—

That turn to flame in heaven,—

Float round him full of bliss.

He sings; each burning feather

Thrills, throbbing at his throat;

A song of firefly weather,

And of a glowworm boat:

Of Elfland and a princess

Who, born of a perfume,

His music rocks,— where winces

That rosebud's cradled bloom.

No bird sings half so airy,

No bird of dusk or dawn,

Thou masking King of Faery!

Thou red-crowned Oberon!