|
|
Our Native Birds
By Nathan Haskell Dole
Alone I sit at eventide;
The twilight glory pales,
And o'er the meadows far and wide
I hear the bobolinks -
(We have no nightingales!)
Song-sparrows warble on the tree,
I hear the purling brook,
And from the old manse on the lea
Flies slow the cawing crow -
(In England 'twere a rook!)
The last faint golden beams of day
Still glow on cottage panes,
And on their lingering homeward way
Walk weary laboring men -
(Alas! we have no swains!)
From farmyards, down fair rural glades
Come sounds of tinkling bells,
And songs of merry brown milkmaids
Sweeter than catbird's strains -
(I should say Philomel's!)
I could sit here till morning came,
All through the night hours dark,
Until I saw the sun's bright flame
And heard the oriole -
(Alas! we have no lark!)
We have no leas, no larks, no rooks,
No swains, no nightingales,
No singing milkmaids (save in books)
The poet does his best: -
It is the rhyme that fails.
Nathan Haskell Dole.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 125 times.
|
|
