THE BIRD IN THE BRAIN.
In a legend of the East there sits
A bird with never a mate:
Out of the dead man's brain it flits,—
Too late for a prayer, too late,
Repeating all the sin
Which the beating heart shut in.
A bird with never a mate:
Out of the dead man's brain it flits,—
Too late for a prayer, too late,
Repeating all the sin
Which the beating heart shut in.
Little child of mine, that I kiss and fold,
With your flower-like hand at my breast,
Already within this head all gold
That bird is building a nest!
May it give but one brief cry,
Sweet, when you come to die.
With your flower-like hand at my breast,
Already within this head all gold
That bird is building a nest!
May it give but one brief cry,
Sweet, when you come to die.
My lord, the king, that shadowy bird
Broods under your crown, I fear;
Take care, sir priest, lest you whisper a word
That Heaven were loth to hear:—
Ermine nor lawn will it spare;
Ah, king, ah, priest, take care!
Broods under your crown, I fear;
Take care, sir priest, lest you whisper a word
That Heaven were loth to hear:—
Ermine nor lawn will it spare;
Ah, king, ah, priest, take care!
