The Lyrebird

[Mlle Bienvenu]

In the trees a bird doth dwell
whose own song you haven't heard
nothing sings so wildly well
as the lyrebird
All the giddy chicks (so some may tell)
ceasing in their songs, attend the spell
of his voice; None stirred

tottering above
atop her highest tree
his smitten bride to be
blushes lovingly
While to listen, the red robin
(With the rapid hummingbirds even
which were seven)
pauses in her heaven.

and they say (the feathered choir
and all other listening things)
That the Lyrebird's fire
is owing to that lyre
by which he sits and sings
the trembling living wire
of those feathered strings.

But the skies that bird doth wings
where song is but a duty
where love rests on he who sings
where songs and postures are
a kind of desperate beauty
like within a single's bar

Therefore thou art not wrong
lyrebird who despisest
and unimpassioned song;
to the the ladies you belong
best bard because the sliest
merrily live, and long.

these ecstasies below her
all thy stolen measures suit-
the rook, the jay, the dove, the plover
sung by the fervor of thy lute
well may the rest be mute!