My Bird

Ere last year’s moon had left the sky

A bird­ling sought my In­di­an nest

And fold­ed

O

so lov­ing­ly!

Her ti­ny wings up­on my breast.

From morn till ev­en­ing’s purple tinge

In win­some help­less­ness she lies

Two rose-leaves

with a silk­en fringe

Shut soft­ly on her sta­rry eyes.

There’s not in Ind a love­li­er bird—

Broad earth owns not a hap­pi­er nest—

O God! Thou hast a fount­ain stirred

Whose wa­ters nev­er­more shall rest!

This beau­ti­ful

mys­te­ri­ous thing

This seem­ing vi­si­tant from Heav­en

This bird

with the im­mor­tal wing

To me—to me

Thy hand has giv­en.

The pulse first caught its ti­ny stroke

The blood

its crim­son hue from mine—

This life

which I have dared in­voke

Henceforth is pa­ral­lel with Thine.

A si­lent awe is in my room

I trem­ble with de­li­cious fear;

The fu­ture

with its light and gloom

Time and eter­ni­ty

is here.

Doubts—hopes

in ea­ger tu­mult

rise—

Hear

O my God! one ear­nest pray­er!

Room for my bird in para­dise

And give her an­gel plum­age there.