LITTLE BIRD

Poet

Little bird, sing me a sweet song deep

        Of what is not to‑day;

Be it not the future that yet doth sleep

In the hall where Time his hours doth keep,

        More than far away.

Sing me a song of the things thou knew'st

        And desirest e'er,

Be it a song to which but is used

The heart that has to love refused

        What is merely fair.

Bird

Young, too young hither I was brought

        From the dells and trees;

Weep with me - I remember them not

Save with a vague and a pining thought:

        Can I sing of these?

Poet

Sing, little bird, sing me that song -­

        None can be more dear -

Come of the spirit that doth long

Not for the past with a sadness strong,

        But for what was never here.

Sing me, sing me that song, little bird;

        I would also sing

Of sounds I remember yet never heard,

Of wishes by which my soul is stirred

        Till then bliss doth sting.

Bird

To breathe that singing I have no might;

        Sing it deeply thou!

I sing when the day is clear and bright

And when the moon is so much in night

        That thy tears do flow.

But thou, thou sing'st in woe, in ill,

        And thy voice is fit

To speak of what the wish doth fill

With pinings indescribable,

        Shadows vague of it.

Poet

Ay, little bird, let us sing in all weather

        A song, of to‑day,

Come of the sense we feel together

That nothing that doth die and wither

        Truly goes away.