The Mocking-Bird

by John Banister Tabb

O heart that cannot sleep for song!
Behold, I wake with thee,
And drink, as from a fountain strong,
Thy midnight melody,
That, poured upon the thirsting silence, seems
Fresh from the shade of dreams

My spirit, like the sapless bough
Of some long-wintered tree,
Feels suddenly the life that now
Sets all thy passion free,
And flushed as in the wakening strength of wine,
Leaps heavenward with thine.