106 OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
What hath my roof for thee? My cold, dark roof, 
Beneath whose weeping thatch thine eggs will freeze! 
Summer will halt not here, so keep aloof. 
Others are gone; go thou. In those wet trees 
I see no Spring, though thou still singest of it. 
Fare hence, false prophet! 
A BIRD AT SUNSET. 
BY OWEN MEREDITH. 
Wild bird, that wingest wide the glimmering moors, 
Whither, by belts of yellowing woods, away ? 
With pausing sunset thy wild heart allures 
Deep into dying day ? 
Would that my heart on wings like thine, could pass 
Where stars their light in rosy regions lose,— 
A happy shadow o’er the warm brown grass, 
Falling with falling dews! 
Hast thou, like me, some true love of thine own, 
In fairy lands beyond the utmost seas; 
Who there, unsolaced, yearns for thee alone, 
And sings to silent trees ? 
O tell that woodbird that the summer grieves, 
And the suns darken and the days grow cold; 
And tell her, love will fade with fading leaves, 
And cease in common mould. 
Fly from the winter of the world to her! 
Fly, happy bird! I follow in thy flight, 
Till thou art lost o’er yonder fringe of fir 
In baths of crimson light. 
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