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The Lover And Birds

Within a budding grove,    In April's ear sang every bird his best,    But not a song to pleasure my unrest,    Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;    Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.                To every word                Of every bird            I listen'd, and replied as it behove.            Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!    Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'    'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear    Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,    And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'                Yet from a twig,                With voice so big,            The little fowl his utterance did repeat.    Then I, 'The man forlorn    Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.'    'And what'll he do?

What'll he do?' scoff'd    The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,    Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft                With cackling laugh;                Whom I, being half            Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.            Worse mock'd the Thrush, 'Die! die!    Oh, could he do it? could he do it?

Nay!    Be quick! be quick!

Here, here, here!' (went his lay.)    'Take heed! take heed!' then 'Why? why? why? why? why?    See-ee now! see-ee now!' (he drawl'd) 'Back! back! back!

R-r-r-run away!'                O Thrush, be still!                Or at thy will,            Seek some less sad interpreter than I.            'Air, air! blue air and white!    Whither I flee, whither,

O whither,

O whither I flee!'    (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)    'Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,    Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see,    see!'                'Gay Lark,' I said,                'The song that's bred            In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.'            'There's something, something sad,    I half remember'—piped a broken strain.    Well sung, sweet Robin!

Robin sung again.    'Spring's opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!'    Which moved,

I wist not why, me melancholy mad,                Till now, grown meek,                With wetted cheek,            Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.

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William Allingham

William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poe…
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