by Frank Dempster Sherman
In the hush of the night he heard
A voice, and his heart said
And the song of a distant bird
Went quavering through the dark.
Like a lost little child it sobbed
As far as the purple hill,
And the valley with music throbbed
A moment, then all was still.
Then the heart in his bosom cried,
Alas, 't is a grievous wrong
That the multitude be denied
The sweetness of such a song:
'T were a poet's divinest art
The words of that song to write!
So he wrote for the eager heart
The song of the bird at night.
And it went like the night-bird's voice
Out into a world of gloom;
And his heart had its dearest choice,
And slept in a poet's tomb!
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company