Joy of the Morning I hear you, little bird, Shouting aswing above the broken wall. Oft when the white, still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I've felt it like a glory in my heart (The world's mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Youth and Time Once, I remember, the world was young; Were softened to mist by the morning star; But alas, he vanished, and Time appeared, This Spirit of Ages, old and weird. Youth and Time The wonder went from the field of corn, I hear no more the wild thrush sing: Calls memories back on their path apace; Sends desperate thoughts to the soul's dim place. Time murders our youth with his sorrow and sin, And pushes us on to the windowless inn. A Satyr Song I know by the stir of the branches And at times I can see where a stem She's the secret and light of my life, She allures to elude; But I follow the spell of her beauty, Whatever the mood. I have followed all night in the hills, But she flies on before like a voice I follow the print of her feet In the wild river bed, And lo, she calls gleefully down From a cliff overhead. A Cry in the Night Wail, wail, wail, For the fleering world goes down: Into the song of the poet pale Grim, grim, grim, Is the road we go to the dead; Pushes the soul ahead. Where, where, where, Through the dust and shadow of things, Will the fleeing Fates with their wild manes bear These tribes of slaves and kings? |