THE POET TO THE BIRDS.
You bid me hold my peace. Or so I think, you birds : you’ll not forgive My kill-joy song that makes the wild song cea«e. Silent or fugitive. Yon thrush stopt in mid-phrase At my mere footfall; and a longer not© Took wing and fled afield, and went its ways Within the blackbird’s throat. Hereditary song. Illyrian lark and Paduan nightingale. Is yours, unchangeable the age. long, Assyria heard your tale; Therefore von do not die. Rut single, local, lonely, mortal, new. Unlike, and thus like all my race, am f Preluding my adieu. My human song must be My human thought. Be patient till ’tis done. 1 shall not ever hold my peace; for me There is no peace but one —Alice Meynell-
Permanent link to this item
https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/TS19220520.2.12.2
Bibliographic details
Star (Christchurch), Issue 16738, 20 May 1922, Page 4
Word Count
128THE POET TO THE BIRDS. Star (Christchurch), Issue 16738, 20 May 1922, Page 4
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