AVICE. That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings That will grow. III. When you enter in a room, It is stirred With the wayward, flashing flight Of a bird; And you speak-and bring with you Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew At a word. IV. When you called to me my name, Then again When I heard your single cry In the lane, AVICE. All the sound was as the "sweet" Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain. V. When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note That I heard; For your strain had all the trills, All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills From a bird. VI. You have just their eager, quick 66 Airs de téte," All their flush and fever-heat When elate; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck To her mate. VII. When you left me, only now, In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat,— Just to feel your heart a-beat, Like a bird. VIII. Yet, alas! Love's light you deign But to wear As the dew upon your plumes, And you care |