Edmund Clarence Stedman (1833–1908)

BRING no more flowers and books and precious things!

O, speak no more of our beloved Art,

Of summer haunts,—melodious wanderings

In leafy refuge from this weary mart:

Surely such thoughts were dear unto my heart;

Now every word a newer sadness brings!

Thus oft some forest-bird, caged far apart

From verdurous freedom, droops his careless wings,

Nor craves for more than food from day to day;

So long bereft of wildwood joy and song,

Hopeless of all he dared to hope so long,—

The music born within him dies away:

Even the song he loved becomes a pain,

Full-freighted with a longing all in vain.