Famous Warbler Poems by Famous Poets

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Second Ode to the Nightingale

 BLEST be thy song, sweet NIGHTINGALE, 
Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale ! 
Where oft I've heard thy dulcet strain 
In mournful melody complain; 
When in the POPLAR'S trembling shade, 
At Evening's purple hour I've stray'd, 
While many a silken folded flow'r 
Wept on its couch of Gossamer, 
And many a time in pensive mood 
Upon the upland mead...Read more of this...

Just Whistle A Bit

Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark,
And the sky be overcast:
If mute be the voice of the piping lark,
Why, pipe your own small blast.
And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track
The truant warbler comes stealing back.
But why need he come? for your soul's at rest,
And the song in the heart,—ah, that is best.[Pg 99]
Just whistle a...Read more of this...

Ode On The Spring

 Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's...Read more of this...

Last Love

 The first flower of the spring is not so fair 
Or bright, as one the ripe midsummer brings. 
The first faint note the forest warbler sings 
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare 
As when, full master of his art, the air 
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings 
Like silver spray from beak, and...Read more of this...

Calls

 BECAUSE I have called to you
as the flame flamingo calls,
or the want of a spotted hawk
is called—
 because in the dusk
the warblers shoot the running
waters of short songs to the
homecoming warblers—
 because
the cry here is wing to wing
and song to song—

 I am waiting,
waiting with the flame flamingo,
the spotted hawk, the running water
warbler—
 waiting for you....Read more of this...

On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window

 She's stopped in her southern tracks
Brought haply to this hard knock
When she shoots from the tall spruce
And snaps her neck on the glass.

From the fall grass I gather her
And give her to my silent children
Who give her a decent burial
Under the dogwood in the garden.

They lay their gifs in the grave:
Matches, a clothes-peg, a coin;
Fire paper for her, sprinkle...Read more of this...

Bush warbler

 Bush warbler:
shits on the rice cakes
 on the porch rail....Read more of this...

Late Spring

 I 

Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, 
Why the sweet Spring delays, 
And where she hides, -- the dear desire
Of every heart that longs
For bloom, and fragrance, and the ruby fire 
Of maple-buds along the misty hills, 
And that immortal call which fills
The waiting wood with songs?
The snow-drops came so long ago, 
It seemed that Spring...Read more of this...

Dirge

 Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn,
What mystic fruit his acres yield
At midnight and at morn?

In the long sunny afternoon,
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.

The winding Concord gleamed below,
Pouring as wide a flood
As when my brothers long ago,
Came with me to the wood.

But they are gone,— the...Read more of this...

Critic and Poet: an Epilogue

 No man had ever heard a nightingale, 
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred 
To study and define--what is a bird, 
To classify by rote and book, nor fail 
To mark its structure and to note the scale 
Whereon its song might possibly be heard. 
Thus far, no farther;--so he spake the word. 
When of a sudden,--hark, the nightingale!...Read more of this...

The Source

 There in the fringe of trees between
the upper field and the edge of the one
below it that runs above the valley
one time I heard in the early
days of summer the clear ringing
six notes that I knew were the opening
of the Fingal's Cave Overture
I heard them again and again that year
and the next summer and the year
afterward those six descending
notes...Read more of this...

A Week Later

 A week later, I said to a friend: I don't
think I could ever write about it.
Maybe in a year I could write something.
There is something in me maybe someday
to be written; now it is folded, and folded,
and folded, like a note in school. And in my dream
someone was playing jacks, and in the air there was a
huge, thrown, tilted...Read more of this...

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