Poems (Chitwood)/Come When the Birds Sing

"COME WHEN THE BIRDS SING."

When the light-hearted Spring,
All the glad hours,
Plants by each leaflet's grave,
Pale little flowers;
When pinky buds, with dew
Shrined in each heart,
Blow, in the gentle winds,
Softly apart;
When, in each trembling urn,
Honey-bees hum;
When to each mossy nook,
Blue-birds are come;
When, in the sunny light,
Green branches wave,—
Come then and sit awhile,
Close by my grave.

When the long, golden days
Of the bright June,
Pass in their beauty by,
Brimful of tune;
When from his breezy nest,
Springeth the lark;
When the young nightingale
Sings through the dark;
When from the cloister deep,
Of the dim west,
Cometh the maiden moon,
Pearls on her breast,—
Then, with a hopeful heart,
Come to my side;
Only a little while
Death can divide.

When, with her placid brow
Twined with ripe wheat,
Cometh the Autumn mild—
Fruits at her feet,
Give not a single sigh
To Autumn's last—
Let not a mournful thought
Come with the past;
Let not a single tear
Rest on thy cheek
Not one wild, bitter word
Let thy lips speak.
In that most holy time,
Best of the year,
When the heart's waters gush
Sparkling and clear;
When precious thoughts and true
Come to us oft,
Soaring, like thistle-down,
Lightly aloft—
Then, through the misty gold,
Look thou on high;
Train every wayward thought
Up to the sky.