It is a wee sad-colored thing,
  As shy and secret as a maid,
That, ere in choir the robins sing,
  Pipes its own name like one afraid.

It seems pain-prompted to repeat
  The story of some ancient ill,
But Phoebe!  Phoebe! sadly sweet
  Is all it says, and then is still.

It calls and listens.  Earth and sky,
  Hushed by the pathos of its fate,
Listen:  no whisper of reply
  Comes from its doom-dissevered mate.

Phoebe! it calls and calls again,
  And Ovid, could he but have heard,
Had hung a legendary pain
  About the memory of the bird;

A pain articulate so long,
  In penance of some mouldered crime
Whose ghost still flies the Furies’ thong
  Down the waste solitudes of time.

Waif of the young World’s wonder-hour,
  When gods found mortal maidens fair,
And will malign was joined with power
  Love’s kindly laws to overbear,

Like Progne, did it feel the stress
  And coil of the prevailing words
Close round its being, and compress
  Man’s ampler nature to a bird’s?

One only memory left of all
  The motley crowd of vanished scenes,
Hers, and vain impulse to recall
  By repetition what it means.

Phoebe! is all it has to say
  In plaintive cadence o’er and o’er,
Like children that have lost their way,
  And know their names, but nothing more.

Is it a type, since Nature’s Lyre
  Vibrates to every note in man,
Of that insatiable desire,
  Meant to be so since life began?

I, in strange lands at gray of dawn,
  Wakeful, have heard that fruitless plaint
Through Memory’s chambers deep withdrawn
  Renew its iterations faint.

So nigh! yet from remotest years
  It summons back its magic, rife
With longings unappeased, and tears
  Drawn from the very source of life.

DAS EWIG-WEIBLICHE

How was I worthy so divine a loss,
  Deepening my midnights, kindling all my morns? 
Why waste such precious wood to make my cross,
  Such far-sought roses for my crown of thorns?

And when she came, how earned I such a gift? 
  Why spend on me, a poor earth-delving mole,
The fireside sweetnesses, the heavenward lift,
  The hourly mercy, of a woman’s soul?

Ah, did we know to give her all her right,
  What wonders even in our poor clay were done! 
It is not Woman leaves us to our night,
  But our brute earth that grovels from her sun.

Our nobler cultured fields and gracious domes
  We whirl too oft from her who still shines on
To light in vain our caves and clefts, the homes
  Of night-bird instincts pained till she be gone.

Still must this body starve our souls with shade;
  But when Death makes us what we were before,
Then shall her sunshine all our depths invade,
  And not a shadow stain heaven’s crystal floor.