Poetry Archives

Alone in desert dreary,
A bird with folded wings
Beholds the waste about her,
And sweetly, sweetly sings.

So heaven-sweet her singing,
So clear the bird notes flow,
’Twould seem the rocks must waken,
The desert vibrant grow.

Dead rocks and silent mountains
Would’st waken with thy strain,—
But dumb are still the mountains,
And dead the rocks remain.

For whom, O heavenly singer,
Thy song so clear and free?
Who hears or sees or heeds thee,
Who feels or cares for thee?

Thou may’st outpour in music
Thy very soul… ’Twere vain!
In stone thou canst not waken
A throb of joy or pain.

Thy song shall soon be silenced;
I feel it… For I know
Thy heart is near to bursting
With loneliness and woe.

Ah, vain is thine endeavor;
It naught availeth—nay;
For lonely as thou camest,
So shalt thou pass away.