Part 34

XII.

THE ORIOLE'S SECRET.

To hear an oriole sing May be a common thing, Or only a divine.

It is not of the bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto crowd.

The fashion of the ear Attireth that it hear In dun or fair.

So whether it be rune, Or whether it be none, Is of within;

The "tune is in the tree," The sceptic showeth me; "No, sir! In thee!"

XIII.

THE ORIOLE.

One of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal, The blissful oriole.

So drunk, he disavows it With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For an alighting mine.

A pleader, a dissembler, An epicure, a thief, -- Betimes an oratorio, An ecstasy in chief;

The Jesuit of orchards, He cheats as he enchants Of an entire attar For his decamping wants.

The splendor of a Burmah, The meteor of birds, Departing like a pageant Of ballads and of bards.

I never thought that Jason sought For any golden fleece; But then I am a rural man, With thoughts that make for peace.

But if there were a Jason, Tradition suffer me Behold his lost emolument Upon the apple-tree.

XIV.

IN SHADOW.

I dreaded that first robin so, But he is mastered now, And I 'm accustomed to him grown, -- He hurts a little, though.

I thought if I could only live Till that first shout got by, Not all pianos in the woods Had power to mangle me.

I dared not meet the daffodils, For fear their yellow gown Would pierce me with a fashion So foreign to my own.

I wished the grass would hurry, So when 't was time to see, He 'd be too tall, the tallest one Could stretch to look at me.

I could not bear the bees should come, I wished they 'd stay away In those dim countries where they go: What word had they for me?

They 're here, though; not a creature failed, No blossom stayed away In gentle deference to me, The Queen of Calvary.

Each one salutes me as he goes, And I my childish plumes Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment Of their unthinking drums.

XV.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

A route of evanescence With a revolving wheel; A resonance of emerald, A rush of cochineal; And every blossom on the bush Adjusts its tumbled head, -- The mail from Tunis, probably, An easy morning's ride.