156 THE SINGING OF BIRDS 



Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 



To toll me back from thee to my sole self. 

 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 

 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 

 Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 

 Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 



In the next valley-glades : 

 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 



Fled is that music : do I wake or sleep ? 



JOHN KEATS. 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH 



(From " Tales of a Wayside Inn") 



THE birds, who make sweet music for us all 

 In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. 



The thrush that carols at the dawn of day 

 From the green steeples of the piny wood ; 



The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay, 

 Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ; 



The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, 

 Flooding with melody the neighbourhood ; 



Linnet and meadow- lark, and all the throng 



That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song, 



Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 

 Do you ne'er think who made them, and who 

 taught 



