Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
On a Thrush Singing in AutumnSir Lewis Morris (1833–1907)
S
Was fill’d with song and bloom, and the fresh year
Tripp’d, like a lamb playful and void of fear,
Through daisied grass and young leaves scarce unfurl’d,
Where is thy liquid voice
That all day would rejoice?
Where now thy sweet and homely call,
Which from grey dawn to evening’s chilling fall
Would echo from thin copse and tassell’d brake,
For homely duty tuned and love’s sweet sake?
The woods grew thick, the meads a deeper hue;
The pipy summer growths swell’d, lush and tall;
The sharp scythes swept at daybreak through the dew.
Thou didst not heed at all,
Thy prodigal voice grew dumb;
No more with song mightst thou beguile,
—She sitting on her speckled eggs the while—
Thy mate’s long vigil as the slow days went,
Solacing her with lays of measureless content.
Sing were Love fled, though still the world were fair;
The summer wax’d and waned, the nights grew cold,
The sheep were thick within the wattled fold,
The woods began to moan,
Dumb wert thou and alone;
Yet now, when leaves are sere, thy ancient note
Comes low and halting from thy doubtful throat.
Oh, lonely loveless voice! what dost thou here
In the deep silence of the fading year?
‘I sang when winds blew chilly all day long;
I sang because hope came and joy was near,
I sang a little while, I made good cheer;
In summer’s cloudless day
My music died away;
But now the hope and glory of the year
Are dead and gone, a little while I sing
Songs of regret for days no longer here,
And touched with presage of the far-off Spring.’
Or do we read into thy simple brain
Echoes of thoughts which human hearts have stirred,
High-soaring joy and melancholy pain?
Nay, nay, that lingering note
Belated from thy throat—
‘Regret,’ is what it sings, ‘regret, regret!
The dear days pass, but are not wholly gone.
In praise of those I let my song go on;
’Tis sweeter to remember than forget.’