Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Maria WhiteLowell

411 Song

O BIRD, thou dartest to the sun,

When morning beams first spring,

And I, like thee, would swiftly run;

As sweetly would I sing.

Thy burning heart doth draw thee up

Unto the source of fire;

Thou drinkest from its glowing cup

And quenchest thy desire.

O dew, thou droppest soft below,

And pearlest all the ground,

Yet, when the morning comes, I know

Thou never canst be found.

I would like thine had been my birth;

Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep the night through on the earth

To waken in the sky.

O clouds, ye little tender sheep,

Pastured in fields of blue,

While moon and stars your fold can keep

And gently shepherd you,

Let me, too, follow in the train

That flocks across the night,

Or lingers on the open plain

With new-shorn fleeces white.

O singing winds, that wander far,

Yet always seem at home,

And freely play ’twixt star and star

Along the bending dome,

I often listen to your song,

Yet never hear you say

One word of all the happy worlds

That sing so far away.

For they are free, ye all are free,

And bird, and dew, and light,

Can dart upon the azure sea

And leave me to my night;

Oh, would like theirs had been my birth,

Then I, without a sigh,

Might sleep this night through on the earth

To waken in the sky.