How blest the wounded bird
F. Hart
How blest the wounded bird that sings
With such a woodland ecstasy,
Till song is Sorrow's self, and he
Folds on thy roof his fretted wings,
All pain forgotten when with thee!
Thus would my wandered heart achieve
(So far outborne on wayward tide)
A still roof in thy heart, to hide
Shielded from lonely Night, and weave
Youth's dream again, and there abide
One bird upon the roof,
A chorister forlorn,
Sings to the cloistered Morn,
Hid in her cloudy woof,
A song that doth unfold
Itself in plaited gold.
Sing what I ne'er can say
The wave may love the shore,
The flowers the dews that pour,
The tired winds love to stay
On cliffs where moss has lain,
Spent with the toiling main.
Dearer to me one heart
Where I would love to dwell,
Woven with magic spell
Into its inner part;
Sunk in its secrecy
Like a star in the sea.