“Here I am, though you’re past caring,”
Sang the bird on the bough,
“Daft in the dawn, despairing,
With cold dew on your brow,
Afraid she has failed you now.
I’ll sing her a welcome — hark,
Such notes as never were heard,
And she’ll say, ‘What is that bird?
No thrush or meadowlark,
No nightingale or dove,
No phoenix flaming by,
Or a swan winging to die —
It must be the bird of love!’
“She’s coming, although you gave up hoping,”
Sang the bird from the tree,
“And you’d have gone off moping
To hang yourself maybe
If it had not been for me.
Beauty the day adorning,
More than the heart can hold,
She moves through a maze of gold,
Dear mistress of the morning.
Go to her, run, young lover,
Although your running seem
Cumbered as in a dream,
Go, for my song is over!”