THE BIRD IN THE BRAIN.
185
Oh, half-saint sister, so cloister-pale,
That bird will be at your bier.
Though you count your beads, though you wear your veil,
Though you hold your cross right dear,
When your funeral tapers come
Will the weird of wing be dumb?
That bird will be at your bier.
Though you count your beads, though you wear your veil,
Though you hold your cross right dear,
When your funeral tapers come
Will the weird of wing be dumb?
Poor lover, beware of the bud of the rose
In the maiden's hand at your side:
She has some secret, the dark bird knows,
Which her youth's fair hair can hide,
Turn, maid, from your lover, too—
The bird knows more than you!
In the maiden's hand at your side:
She has some secret, the dark bird knows,
Which her youth's fair hair can hide,
Turn, maid, from your lover, too—
The bird knows more than you!
