Spring Under Cypresses
Here only hellebore grows, only shade is;
Surely the very Spring here half afraid is:
Out of her bosom
Drops not a blossom,
Mutely she passes through—she and her ladies.
Mutely? Ah, no ; for a pause, and thou hearest
One bird who sings alone—one bird, the dearest.
Nay, who shall name it.
Call it or claim it?
Such birds as sing at all sing here their clearest.
Ah, never dream that the brown meadow-thrushes.
Finches, or happy larks sing in these hushes.
Only some poet
Of birds, flying to it.
Sings here alone, and is lost to the bushes.
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