And No Birds Sing

THERE comes a season when the bird is still
Save for a broken note, so sad and strange,
Its plaintive cadence makes the woodlands thrill
With sense of coming change.
Stirred into ecstasy by spring’s new birth,
In throbbing rhapsodies of hope and love,
He shared his transports with the listening earth
And stormed the heavens above.
But now how should he sing — forlorn, alone —
Of hopes that withered with the waning year,
An empty nest with mate and fledgelings flown,
And winter drawing near ?