Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/47

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The Lost Bird.
41
    Round his smooth temples lie,
And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

    Look where the grass is gay
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers;
    And search, from spray to spray,
    The leafy laurel bowers,
For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

    Find him, but do not dwell,
With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see,
    Nor love his song too well;
    Send him, at once, to me,
Or leave him to the air and liberty.

    For only from my hand
He takes the seed into his golden beak,
    And all unwiped shall stand
    The tears that wet my cheek,
Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

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