Bird Song.

                Art thou not sweet,
Oh world, and glad to the inmost heart of thee!
        All creatures rejoice
        With one rapturous voice.
    As I, with the passionate beat
    Of my over-full heart feel thee sweet,
And all things that live, and are part of thee!

                Light, light as a cloud
Swimming, and trailing its shadow under me
        I float in the deep
        As a bird-dream in sleep,
    And hear the wind murmuring loud,
    Far down, where the tree-tops are bowed,--
And I see where the secret place of the thunders be

                Oh! the sky free and wide,
With all the cloud-banners flung out in it
        Its singing wind blows
        As a grand river flows,
    And I swim down its rhythmical tide,
    And still the horizon spreads wide,
With the birds' and the poets' songs like a shout in it!

                Oh life, thou art sweet
Sweet--sweet to the inmost heart of thee!
        I drink with my eyes
        Thy limitless skies,
    And I feel with the rapturous beat
    Of my wings thou art sweet--
And I,--I am alive, and a part of thee!

Kate Seymour Maclean

Kate Seymour Maclean, born on January 6, 1829, was a Canadian poet who carved out a significant place for herself in the literary scene of her time. Her poetry often reflected the deep appreciation she had for nature, and she was renowned for her elegant and evocative style. Maclean's work was well-regarded by her contemporaries, and she maintained correspondence with others in the literary community, including famous poets like Bliss Carman and Charles G.D. Roberts. She passed away on March 23, 1914, but her contributions to Canadian literature have left a lasting legacy.

Kate Seymour Maclean

The Old Church On The Hill.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

Minnie

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

Resignation.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

Our Volunteers.

Kate Seymour Maclean, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Envoi

A little bird woke singing in the night,
    Dreaming of coming day,
And piped, for very fulness of delight,
    His little roundelay.

Dreaming he heard the wood-lark's carol loud,
    Down calling to his mate,
Like silver rain out of a golden cloud,
    At morning's radiant gate.

And all for joy of his embowering woods,
    And dewy leaves he sung,--
The summer sunshine, and the summer floods
    By forest flowers o'erhung.

Thou shalt not hear those wild and sylvan notes
    When morn's full chorus pours
Rejoicing from a thousand feathered throats,
    And the lark sings and soars,

Oh poet of our glorious land so fair,
    Whose foot is at the door;
Even so my song shall melt into the air,
    And die and be no more.

Kate Seymour Maclean

To A Bird At Dawn

O bird that somewhere yonder sings,
    In the dim hour 'twixt dreams and dawn,
Lone in the hush of sleeping things,
    In some sky sanctuary withdrawn;
Your perfect song is too like pain,
And will not let me sleep again.

I think you must be more than bird,
    A little creature of soft wings,
Not yours this deep and thrilling word -
    Some morning planet 'tis that sings;
Surely from no small feathered throat
    Wells that august, eternal note.

As some old language of the dead,
    In one resounding syllable,
Says Rome and Greece and all is said -
    A simple word a child may spell;
So in your liquid note impearled
Sings the long epic of the world.

Unfathomed sweetness of your song,
    With ancient anguish at its core,

Richard Le Gallienne

River Song

Swift and silent and strong
    Under the low-browed arches,
Through culverts, and under bridges,
Sweeping with long forced marches
Down to the ultimate ridges,--
    The sand, and the reeds, and the midges,
And the down-dropping tassels of larches,
    That border the ocean of song.

Swift and silent and deep
    Through the noisome and smoke-grimed city,
Turning the wheels and the spindles,
    And the great looms that have no pity,--
Weight, and pulley, and windlass,
    And steel that flashes and kindles,
And hears no forest-learnt ditty,
    Not even in dreams and sleep.

Blithe and merry and sweet
    Over its shallows singing,--
I hear before I awaken
    The Bound of the church-bells ringing,
And the sound of the leaves wi...

Kate Seymour Maclean

A Prelude, And A Bird's Song.

The poet's song, and the bird's,
    And the waters' that chant as they run
And the waves' that kiss the beach,
    And the wind's--they are but one.
He who may read their words,
And the secret hid in each,
May know the solemn monochords
That breathe in vast still places;
And the voices of myriad races,
    Shy, and far-off from man,
That hide in shadow and sun,
    And are seen but of him who can
To him the awful face is shown
Swathed in a cloud wind-blown
Of Him, who from His secret throne,
In some void, shadowy, and unknown land
Comes forth to lay His mighty hand
On the sounding organ keys,
    That play deep thunder-marches,
Like the rush and the roar of seas,
    And fill the cavernous arches
Of antique wildernesses hoary,
  ...

Kate Seymour Maclean

On Hearing The Nightingale

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!
O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost
As in a blissful dream! how has my soul
Been wafted in a sea of melody!
Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:
Still with the enchanting music's dying breath
The air is kept in motion, and conveys
Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;
Or is it but an echo from the cell
Of memory that deludes my doating sense?
Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,
And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;
But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,
More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd
With the departed soul of harmony.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves
All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd
Its anxious throbbings, and remov...

Thomas Oldham

Songs On The Voices Of Birds. A Poet In His Youth, And The Cuckoo-Bird.

Once upon a time, I lay
Fast asleep at dawn of day;
Windows open to the south,
Fancy pouting her sweet mouth
To my ear.
    She turned a globe
In her slender hand, her robe
Was all spangled; and she said,
As she sat at my bed's head,
"Poet, poet, what, asleep!
Look! the ray runs up the steep
To your roof." Then in the golden
Essence of romances olden,
Bathed she my entrancéd heart.
And she gave a hand to me,
Drew me onward, "Come!" said she;
And she moved with me apart,
Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say,
For some Fairies trooped that way;
Common people of the place,
Taking their accustomed pleasure,
(All the clocks being stopped) to race
Down the slope on palfreys fleet.
Bridle bells m...

Jean Ingelow