The Song-Sparrow
IN this sweet, tranquil afternoon of spring,
While the low sun declines in the clear west,
I sit and hear the blithe song-sparrow sing
His strain of rapture not to be suppressed;
Pondering life’s problem strange, while death draws near,
I listen to his dauntless song of cheer.
His shadow flits across the quiet stone;
Like that brief transit is my space of days;
For, like a flower’s faint perfume, youth is flown
Already, and there rests on all life’s ways
A dimness; closer my beloved I clasp,
For all dear things seem slipping from my grasp.
Death touches all; the light of loving eyes
Goes out in darkness, comfort is withdrawn;
Lonely, and lonelier still the pathway lies,
Going toward the fading sunset from the dawn:
Yet hark! while those fine notes the silence break,
As if all trouble were some grave mistake!
Thou little bird, how canst thou thus rejoice,
As if the world had known nor sin nor curse?
God never meant to mock us with that voice!
That is the key-note of the universe,
That song of perfect trust, of perfect cheer,
Courageous, constant, free of doubt or fear.
My little helper, ah, my comrade sweet,
My old companion in that far-off time
When on life’s threshold childhood’s wingèd feet
Danced in the sunrise! Joy was at its prime
When all my heart responded to thy song,
Unconscious of earth’s discords harsh and strong.
Now, grown aweary, sad with change and loss,
With the enigma of myself dismayed;
Poor, save in deep desire to bear the cross
God’s hand on his defenseless creatures laid,
With patience, —here I sit this eve of spring,
And listen with bowed head, while thou dost sing.
And slowly all my soul with comfort fills,
And the old hope revives and courage grows;
Up the deserted shore a fresh tide thrills,
And like a dream the dark mood melts and goes,
And with thy joy again will I rejoice:
God never meant to mock us with that voice!
