. The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman. ne for my ear thou art singingA song which no stranger hath heard : T 372 LATER POEMS. But afar from me yet, like a bird,Thy soul, in some region unstirred,On its mystical circuit is winging. Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own ;Henceforth we are mingled forever :But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor — Though round thee my garlands are thrown, And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone — To master the spell that aloneMy hold on thy being can sever. Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me !But thy soul, when I strive to be near it —The innermost f
. The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman. ne for my ear thou art singingA song which no stranger hath heard : T 372 LATER POEMS. But afar from me yet, like a bird,Thy soul, in some region unstirred,On its mystical circuit is winging. Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own ;Henceforth we are mingled forever :But in vain, all in vain, I endeavor — Though round thee my garlands are thrown, And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone — To master the spell that aloneMy hold on thy being can sever. Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me !But thy soul, when I strive to be near it —The innermost fold of thy spirit —Is as far from my grasp, is as free,As the stars from the mountain-tops be,As the pearl, in the depths of the sea, From the portionless king that would wear it. THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS. WHITHER away, Robin,Whither away?Is it through envy of the maple-leaf,Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast,Thou wilt not stay ?The summer days were long, yet all too briefThe happy season thou hast been our guest:Whither away ?. The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing. Page 373. HYPATIA. 373 Whither away, Bluebird,Whither away ?The blast is chill, yet in the upper skyThou still canst find the color of thy wing,The hue of , why speed thy southern flight ? ah, why,Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring ?Whither away ? Whither away, Swallow,Whither away ?Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest ?Not one short day ?Wilt thou — as if thou human wert — go forthAnd wanton far from them who love thee best ?Whither away ? HYPATIA. ,r I IS fifteen hundred years, you say, -?- Since that fair teacher diedIn learned Alexandria By the stone altars side : —The wild monks slew her, as she layAt the feet of the Crucified. Yet in a prairie-town, one night, I found her lecture-hall,Where bench and dais stood aright, And statues graced the wall,And pendent bra
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