Poetry · Song

Song

Oh bird, thou dartest to the sun

When morning beams first spring,

And I, like thee, would swiftly run,

As sweetly would I sing:

Thy burning heart doth draw thee up

Unto the source of fire;

Thou drinkest from its glowing cup,

And quenchest thy desire.

Oh dew, thou droppest soft below,

And pearlest all the ground,

Yet when the noontide comes, I know

Thou never canst be found;

I would like thine had been my birth,

Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep my night through on the earth,

To waken in the sky.

Oh clouds, ye little tender sheep,

Pastured in fields of blue,

While moon and stars your fold can keep,

And gently shepherd you⁠—

Let me, too, follow in the train

That flocks across the night,

Or lingers on the open plain

With new-shorn fleeces white.

Oh singing winds, that wander far,

Yet always seem at home,

And freely play ’twixt star and star,

Along the bending dome,

I often listen to your song,

Yet never hear you say

One word of all the happy worlds

That shine so far away.

For they are free, ye all are free,

And bud, and dew, and light,

Can dart upon the azure sea,

And leave me to my night;

Oh would like theirs had been my birth,

Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep this night through on the earth

To waken in the sky.