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|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 cease,
Silent or fugitive.
Yon thrush stopt in mid-phrase|
At my mere footfall; and a longer note
Took wing and fled afield, and went its ways
Within the blackbird’s throat.
Illyrian lark and Paduan nightingale,
Is yours, unchangeable the ages long;
Assyria heard your tale;
Therefore you do not die.|
But single, local, lonely, mortal, new,
Unlike, and thus like all my race, am I,
Preluding my adieu.
My human song must be|
My human thought. Be patient till ’tis done.
I shall not hold my little peace; for me
There is no peace but one.
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Lane Core Jr. (email@example.com)
Created April 14, 2001; not revised.