To Our Mocking-Bird.

Died of a cat, May, 1878.



I.

Trillets of humor, - shrewdest whistle-wit, -
Contralto cadences of grave desire
Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre
Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split
About the slim young widow who doth sit
And sing above, - midnights of tone entire, -
Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire; -
Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite
Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave
And trickling down the beak, - discourses brave
Of serious matter that no man may guess, -
Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress -
All these but now within the house we heard:
O Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird?


II.

Ah me, though never an ear for song, thou hast
A tireless tooth for songsters: thus of late
Thou camest, Death, thou Cat! and leap'st my gate,
And, long ere Love could follow, thou hadst passed
Within and snatched away, how fast, how fast,
My bird - wit, songs, and all - thy richest freight
Since that fell time when in some wink of fate
Thy yellow claws unsheathed and stretched, and cast
Sharp hold on Keats, and dragged him slow away,
And harried him with hope and horrid play -
Ay, him, the world's best wood-bird, wise with song -
Till thou hadst wrought thine own last mortal wrong.
'Twas wrong! 'twas wrong! I care not, WRONG's the word -
To munch our Keats and crunch our mocking-bird.


III.

Nay, Bird; my grief gainsays the Lord's best right.
The Lord was fain, at some late festal time,
That Keats should set all Heaven's woods in rhyme,
And thou in bird-notes. Lo, this tearful night,
Methinks I see thee, fresh from death's despite,
Perched in a palm-grove, wild with pantomime,
O'er blissful companies couched in shady thyme,
- Methinks I hear thy silver whistlings bright
Mix with the mighty discourse of the wise,
Till broad Beethoven, deaf no more, and Keats,
'Midst of much talk, uplift their smiling eyes,
And mark the music of thy wood-conceits,
And halfway pause on some large, courteous word,
And call thee "Brother", O thou heavenly Bird!


Baltimore, 1878.

Sidney Lanier

Sidney Lanier, born February 3, 1842, in Macon, Georgia, was an American musician, poet, and author. He was known for his musical and poetic works that embodied the natural beauty and culture of the American South. Lanier fought in the American Civil War, an experience that deeply influenced his later works. He is celebrated for his technical mastery and innovative use of meter and musicality in poetry. Lanier passed away on September 7, 1881, in Lynn, North Carolina.

Sidney Lanier

Control.

Sidney Lanier, Simple Poetry

An Frau Nannette Falk-Auerbach.

Sidney Lanier, Simple Poetry

A Sea-Shore Grave. To M. J. L.

Sidney Lanier, Simple Poetry

To Bayard Taylor.

Sidney Lanier, Simple Poetry

English

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The Mocking-Bird.

Superb and sole, upon a plumed spray
That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,
He summ'd the woods in song; or typic drew
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Of languid doves when long their lovers stray,
And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle dew
At morn in brake or bosky avenue.
Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.
Then down he shot, bounced airily along
The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made song
Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.
Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:
How may the death of that dull insect be
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A Caged Mocking-Bird

        I pass a cobbler's shop along the street
            And pause a moment at the door-step, where,
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            The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near,
            Fly o'er the fields at fullness of the year,
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        Join all the months of music into one.

        I shut my eyes:    the shy wood-thrush is there,
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Owl against Robin.

Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him
Sore, that the song of the robin restrained him
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Over and over and over and over,
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Bare Boughs

O heart, - that beat the bird's blithe blood,
The blithe bird's strain, and understood
The song it sang to leaf and bud, -
What dost thou in the wood?

O soul, - that kept the brook's glad flow,
The glad brook's word to sun and moon, -
What dost thou here where song lies low,
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Where once was heard a voice of song,
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Where once a music flowed along,
The rain's wild bugle's ring.

The weedy water frets and ails,
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Unhappy brook! O withered wood!
O days, whom Death makes comrades of!
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The Lover And Birds

Within a budding grove,
In April's ear sang every bird his best,
But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;
Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
To every word
Of every bird
I listen'd, and replied as it behove.

Scream'd Chaffinch, 'Sweet, sweet, sweet!
Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!'
'Chaffinch,' quoth I, 'be dumb awhile, in fear
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And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.'
Yet from a twig,
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Then I, 'The man forlorn
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Elegy, (Written At The Request Of A Young Lady.) Sylvia On Her Dead Canary-Bird

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
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Forgetting care, while many an hour
In music sweetly stole away;

There will I bid thy relics rest;
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Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.

Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
To deck with verse thy simple urn.

'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
Peerless in plumage and in lay;
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And that the golden blush of day.'

'Soon as the Morn began...

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