Part 20 (1/2)

THE IMPRISONED LARK.

Did you send your song to the gates of gold In the days of long ago?

A song of sweetness and gladness untold, Till fain was my lady to have and to hold-- Ah! my lady did not know.

'Tis love and joy make the soul of a song, If we only understood.

Can each strain be tender, and true, and strong, When the days stretch out so weary and long, Dear little bird of the wood?

The sun came so boldly into your cell-- 'Tis the springtime, pretty bird-- And full sweet the story he had to tell Of doings in meadow and wood and dell, Till your longing grew and stirred.

This cage of my lady's has silver bars, And my lady's voice is mild, But oh, to sail 'twixt the earth and stars, Forget the hurt of the prison bars In the gladness of freedom wild!

To soar and circle o'er shadowy glade Where dewdrops hide from the sun!

O fields where the blossoming clover swayed!

O voices familiar that music made Till the full, glad day was done!

Ah, then you sang, little bird of the wood, And you stilled the laughing throng.

To make pa.s.sionate longing understood You took the height and depth of your mood And flung them into a song!

These guests of my lady's did listen, I know, When out through the silver bars You sent forth a measure, liquid and low As laughter of waters that ebb and flow Under the s.h.i.+mmering stars.

You sang of the sweetest, gladdest, and best Your longing heart held in store, Till into the careless listener's breast There flashed a sudden and vague unrest, That grew into something more.

Eyes saw for a few brief moments' s.p.a.ce The heights that were never trod, And, seeing, grew dim for the swift, bold race That was planned in the hours when youth and grace Came fresh from the hand of G.o.d.

Only a homesick bird of the field Trilling a glorious note!

Only a homesick bird of the wood With heaven in your full throat!

WOMAN.

Not faultless, for she was not fas.h.i.+oned so, A mingling of the bitter and the sweet; Lips that can laugh and sigh and whisper low Of hope and trust and happiness complete, Or speak harsh truths; eyes that can flash with fire, Or make themselves but wells of tenderness Wherein is drowned all bitterness and ire-- Warm eyes whose lightest glance is a caress.

Heaven sent her here to brighten this old earth, And only heaven fully knows her worth.

THE MULLEIN MEADOW.

Down in the mullein meadow The l.u.s.ty thistle springs, The b.u.t.terflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,

The alderbush is flaunting Her blossoms white as snow-- The same old mullein meadow We played in long ago.