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| SILENCE instead of thy sweet song, my bird, |
| Which through the darkness of my winter days |
| Warbling of summer sunshine still was heard; |
| Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place. |
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| The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice, |
| Carols of gladness ring from every tree; |
| But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice |
| No more: my summer song has died with thee. |
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| What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird? |
| The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweep |
| And whirling eddies by the home are heard, |
| Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep. |
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| What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite? |
| Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread, |
| Where e’en at noonday dimly falls the light, |
| Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead. |
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| What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul? |
| Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees, |
| Bending great ivory cups to the control |
| Of the soft swaying orange-scented breeze. |
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| What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee? |
| The wide wild marshes with their clashing reeds |
| And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea |
| Daily its tides of briny freshness leads. |
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| What didst thou sing of, O thou wingëd voice? |
| Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned, |
| Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice, |
| With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round. |
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| These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight! |
| From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark! |
| These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light, |
| Through the grim northern winter drear and dark. |
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