The Spirit and the Wood Sparrow48
(From Joy, and other Poems.)
’Twas long ago:
The place was very fair;
And from a cloud of snow
A spirit of the air
Dropped to the earth below.
It was a spot by man untrod,
Just where
I think is only known to God.
The spirit, for a while,
Because of beauty freshly made
Could only smile;
Then grew the smiling to a song,
And as he sang he played
Upon a moonbeam-wired cithole
Shaped like a soul.
There was no ear
Or far or near,
Save one small sparrow of the wood,
That song to hear.
This, in a bosky tree,
Heard all, and understood
As much as a small sparrow could
By sympathy.
’Twas a fair sight
That morn of Spring,
When on the lonely height,
The spirit paused to sing,
Then through the air took flight
Still lilting on the wing.
And the shy bird,
Who all had heard,
Straightway began
To practice o’er the lovely strain;
Again, again;
Though indistinct and blurred,
He tried each word,
Until he caught the last far sounds that fell
Like the faint tinkles of a fairy bell.
Now when I hear that song,
Which has no earthly tone,
My soul is carried with the strain along
To the everlasting Throne;
To bow in thankfulness and prayer,
And gain fresh faith, and love, and patience, there.
Footnote
48 By permission of the author, and publishers. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, N. Y.