THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS. ÆGROTUS. SPRING too sick PRING,-art thou come, O Spring! I am too sick for words; How hast thou heart to sing, O Spring, with all thy birds? MERULA. I sing for joy to see again The merry leaves along the lane, And look, my love upon the bough! Hark, how she calleth to me now,— "Pipe ! pipe !" ÆGROTUS. Ah! weary is the sun : Love is an idle thing; But, Bird, thou restless one, HIRUNDO. By shore and sea I come and go To seek I know not what; and lo! On no man's eaves I sit But voices bid me rise once more, Flit! Flit! ÆGROTUS. This is Earth's bitter cup :— ALAUDA. A secret Spirit gifteth me With song, and wing that lifteth me,— A Spirit for whose sake, Striving amain to reach the sky, Still to the old dark earth I cry,— "Wake! wake !" ÆGROTUS. My hope hath lost its wing. Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing Thy tears made musical? PHILOMELA. Alas for me! a dry desire Is all my song,—a waste of fire That will not fade nor fail; To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time, "Wail! wail!" ÆGROTUS. This is the sick man's song, Mournful, in sooth, and fit; Unrest that cries "How long !"And the Night answers it. "Sweetheart, save me and you, Where has the summer kist Flowers of as fair a hue,- Therewith I laughed aloud, "O little flowers so proud, Have ye seen eyes Change through the blue in them, Change till the mere Loving that grew in them Turned to a tear? "Flowers, ye are bright of hue, Delicate, sweet; Flowers, and the sight of you Lightens men's feet; Yea; but her worth to me, Flowerets, even, Sweetening the earth to me, Sweeteneth heaven. "This, then, O Flowers, I sing; God, when He made Made yet a fairer thing ye, Making my Lady;— |