At the Voice of a Bird — Consurgent Ad Vocem Volucris
Call to me, thrush,
When night grows dim,
When dreams unform
And death is far!
When hoar dews flush
On dawn’s rathe brim,
Wake me to hear
Thy wildwood charm,
As a lone rush
Astir in the slim
White stream where sheer
Blue mornings are.
Stir the keen hush
On twilight’s rim
When my own star
Is white and clear.
Fly low to brush
Mine eyelids grim,
Where sleep and storm
Will set their bar;
For God shall crush
Spring balm for him,
Stark on his bier
Past fault or harm,
Who once, as flush
Of day might skim
The dusk, afar
In sleep shall hear
Thy song’s cool rush
With joy rebrim
The world, and calm
The deep with cheer.
Then, Heartsease, hush!
If sense grow dim,
Desire shall steer
Us home from far.