Maurice Thompson

The Gold-Bird

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The gold-bird came in the May morn
Down fragrant billows of southwest weather:
He fell, like a flame, in the sweet thorn,--
He and his brown mate close together.


This was the promise of May-time;
Wind-song and bird-song sweetly flowing
Over the thorn, like a love-rhyme,
Where buds were breaking and flowers were blowing.


The gold-bird sang to his brown mate
A song no words of mine may render,
While she built a nest in the sweet thorn,
In the dusky deeps of the thorn leaves tender.


This was the joy of the May-time:
A bird like a flame and a love like fire,
The weather set to a soft tune
Thrilled and filled with pure desire.


The gold-bird sat by his brown mate,
Brooding their young through the drowsy weather,
And when June came with its red heat
The birds and their brood flew off together.


O sweet fulfillment of May-time!
A gold-bird, a brown mate, a nest and fruition
Of all the joys of a love-song!
This was the whole of the gold-bird's mission.

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Maurice Thompson