To a Songster O little bird, I’d be A Poet like to thee, Singing
my native song— Brief to the ear, but long To Love and Memory.
Like as a brook that all night long Sings, as at noon, a bubble-
song To Sleep’s unheeding ear, The Poet to himself must sing,
When none but God is listening The lullaby to hear. O leaf upon
the highest bough, The Poet of the woods art thou To whom alone
’tis given— The farthest from thy place of birth— To hold
communion with the earth, Nor lose the light of Heaven. O leaf
upon the topmost height, Amid thy heritage of light Unsheltered
by a shade, ’Tis thine the loneliness to know That leans for
sympathy below Nor finds what it hath made. The sweetest
warblers—one in light, And one in darkness, screened from sight—
By voice alone prevail; So let the poet sing his song, As far
secluded from the throng As lark or nightingale. A gleam of
heaven; the passion of a Star Held captive in the clasp of
harmony: A silence, shell-like breathing from afar The rapture
of the deep—eternity. John B.