A poem that I cannot write,
A frail, exquisite thing,
I found one day in snow-blown field,
And heard a spring bird sing.
It was a simple, little nest
Upon a bramble spray,
A home some happy bird had built
In joyous, sunny May.
Who taught him how to build his nest?
Who gave to him his song?
Who kept these arts preserved for us
The many ages long?
This was his home, here sat his mate,
The nest was blest with young,
This bramble was a holy place,
And love the song he sung.
0 could I tell in simple words
What mysteries you wake,
That flood my heart with ecstasy
And leave a strange, dull ache.
Upon the wall of memory
I hung the bramble spray
With nest of subtle artistry,
A gem I prize today.
0 could I make my life a gem
Upon a bramble spray
That I might leave to sing for me
When I have gone away.
The winter snow has drifted deep.
My heart, where is the spring?
I see a nest upon my wall,
And hear a spring bird sing.