As Linnets Sing
NAY, wherefore should I seek thy patient ear
To weary thee with words that naught avail!
This faltering voice will not ring true and clear,
It will but break and fail.
And yet I cannot keep back any part
Of my delight; fain would I give thee all
The music that thou makest in my heart,
As David sang to Saul.
Would bring thee garlands sweet and manifold,
Meek violets full of fragrance, —roses, too,
Dark pansies richly streaked with burning gold,
And lilies bright with dew.
But ah, they grow so pallid 'neath my hand!
So scentless and so colorless and frail —
The music cannot reach where thou dost stand,
It will but break and fail.
Still at their source the notes are true and strong,
And as some linnet sings, whose happy breast,
Filled with the summer’s rapture, thrills with song
That will not be suppressed,
Until she cannot choose but strive to blend
Her slender silver thread of wavering sound
With all the nobler voices that ascend,
Though lost it be and drowned, —
So sing I to the sun that fills my sky
With warmth and light and health. So I to thee
Send up my broken music ceaselessly,
Silent I cannot be.
