In Memoriam A. H. H. 116
Is it, then, regret for buried time / ; ; ; ;That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till thy little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.
Is it, then, regret for buried time / ; ; ; ;That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
Once in a golden hour / ; ; I cast to earth a seed.
I wage not any feud with Death / For changes wrought on form and face;
Now fades the last long streak of snow, / Now burgeons every maze of quick