n 



To Our Moching'Bird 



Died of a Cat, May, 1878 



I 



tnllets of humor, — shrruodest whistle-wit, — 

 Contralto cadences of grave desire 

 Such as from off the passionate Indian pyre 

 Drift down through sandal-odored flames that split 

 About the slim young widow who doth sit 



And sing above, — midnights of tone entire, — 

 Tissues of moonlight shot with songs of fire; — 

 Bright drops of tune, from oceans infinite 

 Of melody, sipped off the thin-edged wave 

 And trickling down the beak, — discourses brave 

 Of serious matter that no man 7nay guess, — 

 Good-fellow greetings, cries of light distress — 

 All these but now within the house we heard: 

 Death, wast thou too deaf to hear the bird ? 



