The Brown Bird.

I heard a brown bird singing in the East,
When tiptoe Evening stole across the skles,
And fairy fingers tinted fading clouds
With magic hues and laid the day to rest.
I felt the cool fresh thrill of twilight's touch,
And watched the first star blink its far-off light.
I heard a brown bird singing—oh, the thrill
Of fine, soul-burning transport in my heart
At that grand, swelling throb of harmony!
I stopped and listened; great black hills watched by,
And ceased eternal vigil through the night
To hear those rich notes poured from God-lent throat,
Which burst themselves in love-sighs—ruled the earth.
I heard a brown bird singing, and the trees
Bowed to his melody, and softly swayed,
And whispered sweetly to the sobbing stream.
I listened; and I felt our mystic life
Would finer, grander, more soul-lifting be,
In some infinity of twilit bounds,
Where but to feel, and love, this gift of life,
To glow with warm blood fiery in one's veins,
To live—and cast all other things aside—
Were life itself. That throbbing joy of life
Fast held me with a firm yet loving hand;
I called (fond hope) for immortality,
That I might live, and love my powerful life,
Till endless centuries should fall away,
And crumble, in immensity of time.
Oh, but to feel clear Evening's soft white mist
Which sinks like snow upon the yielding earth,
Is crowning ecstacy, and mighty joy,
When thrilling bird-songs float through quivering air.
Enthralled, enchanted, singing in my soul,
The sweet ideal of ecstacy and love
Burst through my heart, pulsating like a flame—
To live, and love the savage joys of life,
Till all Eternity shall roll away!

—R. L. Meek.

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