Premonition

This is my singing season, and the dearth Of music ended; I am pregnant thus With sound and colour, and melodious Mine unborn poems clamour after birth. Perchance, arising from the tuneless earth To bring sweet gifts of cadence unto us, Some vocal brother to Theocritus Inspires my lips with his diviner worth. Or yet, some ghostly elder singer's breath Is floating to me, and strange voices ring On my soul's ear with sound that quickeneth: "Build now or never," say they, and they bring. The premonition of an early death That bids me hasten with my harvesting.