Thine Own Song

When I would sing, thou hast struck me dumb.
When I would make a glorious noise,
My lute respondeth not.
Oh, e'en the songbird Thou hast favored more.
'Twould grieve me sore did I not know his fittingness.
There, where waves the willow bough
Betasselled with spring rain,
There resideth he whom God so loves.
Perchance my song belongeth not to me,
And 'tis but borrowed, and when winter comes,
'Tis left to me a trust for him-
The songster-brother.
Mayhap the fool, tired from the task
Of paying for his bread with jest,
Shall hide his leering neath his cowl,
And listen to the song that's flowing from
The meadow there, and in the dark
Of his retreat, meet all the fairie folk;
While he who sits in regal robes
Heareth but the brass of yonder bell.
Halt, beloved, in thy maddening haste,
And reckon with thyself. Hast snapped
The cord bound round thy book of song,
And stopped to read thy note?
Or dost thou listen to thy heart,
Which singeth not a line of borrowed song?
Hast not? A babe should teach thee then,
For from his sleep he wakes to coo the song,
Sung to prove unto his bearer
Her God's faith in her trust.
And on a day, a day that's yet to be,
One feathered choirester shall try a melody,
And find it not his own, but listening,
Hear this note of thine a wayward breeze
Hath blown from 'neath a fresh-turned sod,
And growing bolder,
Sing thy song to heaven and God!