To A Wounded Bird

Thou shalt feel no more the wind on thy wing, Nor float on the breath of the breeze; Thou shalt drowse no more on the blossoming branch 'Neath the lullaby song of the trees. Thou shalt seek no more in the green of the year Thy love and thy heart's desire; Thou shalt mate no more in the scent of the thorn, Nor nest in the dark of the brier. Thou hast fought thy last in the joy of the storm, The clouds shall not hide thee again. What is left thee now but to creep in the grass Thy maimed wings uplifting in vain. Thou art done with love, and from hope out-thrown, Yet I succour thy life's brief hour, For it may be that He Who has marked thy fall Shall deal with me so in His power. For I, too, have fought in the joy of the storm With a strong and a passionate wing, I have flown star high in the clear of the night And loved in the green of the spring. I shall rise no more from the cold of the ground, Where I creep with a wounded breast, Yet it may be that He Who has marked thy fall Shall hold me as dear as the rest.