MY LITTLE MASTER
O little poet, winging through
The sheer, clear blue,
Is it the sky you’re singing to?
Or is it that afar you see
Some leafy, laden apple-tree,
And half concealed and half confessed,
A nest?
Ah, truly now, I would I knew
The happy secret of your glee,
That joy wherewith you birds are blest,
Red-breast!
So airy and so light of wing,
You soar and sing,
I pray, could you not softly fling,
My merry minstrel, down to me
Some echo of that melody
That spills from out your tiny bill?
Some trill
Of all those liquid tones that ring
So full of purest poetry,
That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until
They fill
These vibrant seas of azure air,
Whose blue tides bear
Their witching sweetness everywhere?
O little master, heed to me!
And ah, so true, so tenderly,
I’ll learn to sing how lovely grows
This rose,
Till, by and by, dear heart, I’ll dare
To touch some bolder note, maybe,
Some chord whence deeper music flows;
Who knows?