Sweet latest herald of the spring,
Fresh from thy rest at nature's heart,
Where thou dost linger listening
Till all her warm, strong pulses start. Last eve I heard thy fairy note
Along the orchard arches blown;
Faint, --faint it seemed, and far remote,
And yet I knew it for thine own. Though wild the robin sang above,
And bluebird carolled blithe and clear,
Thy low voice, like the word of love,
Found instant pathway to mine ear. And in my breast the pulse of spring
Beat out an answering throb; I knew
'Midst rivals' noisier carolling,
The one fine voice of prophet true. And thine, alas! A prophet's fate;
All night the rains have fallen on thee;
All night no comfort, --no, but hate,
Darkness and doubt and misery. Thou comest not to me this morn
With secrets of thy earth and air,
But with thy poor drowned wings forlorn,
Thrice weary with thy heart's despair! Where didst thou pass thy soul's unrest
Through all those bitter hours and wild?
Behold thy soft sky-woven vest
With darkest stains of earth defiled! O welcome to my porch and vine,
Thy singing-bower in other days!
Make it thy house wherein to pine,
Which once thou mad'st thy house of praise! Ay, welcome to my heart, dear bird!
Come in, come in, and lodge with me:
This breast with greater griefs is stirred
Than any fate can bring to thee. I'll tell thee of the wearing pain
No human heart may share or know, --
The slow worm that amidst the grain
Robs harvest of its overflow. And thus with kindly sympathy
We'll sun these lives with sorrows sown,
Lest some approaching season see
Their fields with bitter weeds o'ergrown. See now the clouds flow back! The sun
Comes through the orchard's eastern gate;
Adown the air fleet murmurs run,
That break in song and soar elate. The scenes that coldly viewed thy plight
With golden lights are hallowed now;
The drops that beat on thee all night
Are chains of diamonds on the bough.