L'OISEAU QUE J'ATTENDS.
The bright suns dead will soon be born,
And lo! the birds already make
Their nests on bush, and tree, and thorn,
And graze the wood, and skim the lake;
Each morn a sound of wings goes by,
And I arise, and hope, and fret;
The swallows darken half the sky,
But where's my bird?—it comes not yet.
I've known ambition since the day
I saw an eagle heavenward bound
Contemplate from its cloudlands grey
The dusty insects of the ground.
In tempests black I hear it scream,
And see its beak in red blood wet,
But now no more of glory dream—
Ah, where's my bird?—it comes not yet.
The nightingale delights to pick
A blade, or worm, or bit of bread,
And hides in woods 'mid foliage thick,
To sing one day; and then is dead.
It sings of love—oh irony!
It only wakes a vain regret;
What need have I of harmony?
My bird, my bird,—it comes not yet.
