"Out of the South I wing, Blown on the breath of Spring: The little faltering song That in my beak I bring Some maiden shall catch and sing, Filling it with the longing And the blithe, unfettered thronging Of her spirit's blossoming. "Warbling along In the sunny weather, Float, my notes, Through the sunny motes, Falling light as a feather! Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land 'Mid hovering insects' hums; Fall into the sower's hand: Then, when his harvest comes, The seed and the song shall have flowered together. "From the Coosa and Altamaha, With a thought of the dim blue Gulf; From the Roanoke and Kanawha; From the musical Southern rivers, O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf Lies slain and buried in flowers; I come to your chill, sad hours And the woods where the sunlight shivers. I come like an echo: 'Awake!' I answer the sky and the lake And the clear, cool color that quivers In all your azure rills. I come to your wan, bleak hills For a greeting that rises dearer, To homely hearts draws me nearer Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches. "I will charm away your sorrow, For I sing of the dewy morrow: My melody sways like the branches My light feet set astir: I bring to the old, as I hover, The days and the joys that were, And hope to the waiting lover! Then, take my note and sing, Filling it with the longing And the blithe, unfettered thronging Of your spirit's blossoming!" Not long that music lingers: Like the breath of forgotten singers It flies,--or like the March-cloud's shadow That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow Not long! And yet thy fleeting, Thy tender, flute-toned greeting, O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains The purest chord in all the year's refrains. THE VOICE OF THE VOID I warn, like the one drop of rain On your face, ere the storm; Or tremble in whispered refrain With your blood, beating warm. I am the presence that ever Baffles your touch's endeavor,-- Gone like the glimmer of dust Dispersed by a gust. I am the absence that taunts you, The fancy that haunts you; The ever unsatisfied guess That, questioning emptiness, Wins a sigh for reply. Nay; nothing am I, But the flight of a breath-- For I am Death! "O WHOLESOME DEATH"