Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, & And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?a Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain," That has been, and may be again?"
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass At once far off, and near,
Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.
That way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show!
See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves-one-two-and three-
From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,— To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now-now one~ Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
"Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale, so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung-head pointing towards the ground
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near?
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