O prophet bird, on the leafless bough,
Singing of love to the cold young spring;
It will come, it will come, but it is not now,
The young year heeds not the news you bring.
Ye merry builders beneath the eaves,
Would ye still work on if your work were vain?
Must the old tree travail with fresh young leaves,
And the sad heart break into song again?
If the year is young and fulfils its round,
If the hopes of the old earth quicken anew
Till the brow of June with the rose is crowned,
And the woods are faint for the evening dew,
Must the heart that is weary and taking its rest,
And the cheek that is wan as the waning moon,
Again in the service of love be prest
For the poorer wage of his afternoon?
Yes, sing, blithe prophet, and waken the spring,
For the day of love is fleet as fain;
Sing, sing of longing and love's keen sting
To the wintry sun, i' the wind and the rain;
Yes, sing, dear bird, till you can no more;
Sing, sing, young leaves, to the leafless tree,
And thou, my heart,—no, heart, give o'er;
Poor fool, he has no word for thee.