The Wounded Bird.
Never again!—there are crimson drops
Quivering on thy breast;
Thy pulses curdle around the shaft
Under thy soft wing pressed.
Ah! it is well, thou has breathed thy song—
If its low, wild gush hath stirred
One heart's deep waves, thou hast done thy part,
Beautiful, wounded bird!
Quivering on thy breast;
Thy pulses curdle around the shaft
Under thy soft wing pressed.
Ah! it is well, thou has breathed thy song—
If its low, wild gush hath stirred
One heart's deep waves, thou hast done thy part,
Beautiful, wounded bird!
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