To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring

(For Kenton)      An iron hand has stilled the throats         That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee      And dammed the flood of silver notes         That drenched the world in melody.      The blosmy apple boughs are yearning      For their wild choristers' returning,         But no swift wings flash through the tree.      Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,         Shall Silence take you in her net?      And shall Death quell that radiant song         Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?      Burst the frail web about you clinging      And charm Death's cruel heart with singing         Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.      The scented morning of the year         Is old and stale now ye are gone.      No friendly songs the children hear         Among the bushes on the lawn.      When babies wander out a-Maying      Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?         Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?      Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.         Above the stars is set your nest.      Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly         And in the trees of Heaven rest.      And little children in their dreaming      Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming         And smile, by your clear music blest.