Gaurav Julka

The Heart can Articulate. Enunciate. Speak.

Wild Little Bird a poem by Amy Lowell

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Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
 To put upon the cover of this book?
 Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
 The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
 When the damp freshness of the morning earth
 Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?.
aWho followed over moss and twisted roots,
 And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
 Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
 While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
 Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
 Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
 Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
 Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
 Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?.
We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps
 That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
 Who never sings but once, and then his song
 Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
 From sheer exuberance of melody.
For this they took thee, little bird, for this
 They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
 And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
 For it contains a song surpassing thine,
 Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet
 Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
 Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
 A little while, and then he died; too frail
 To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.

Written by Gaurav Julka

November 28, 2011 at 1:23 AM

Posted in Fortitude

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