Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign <br />To put upon the cover of this book? <br />Who heard thee singing in the distance dim, <br />The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood, <br />When the damp freshness of the morning earth <br />Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song? <br /> <br />Who followed over moss and twisted roots, <br />And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines <br />Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly, <br />While ever clearer came the dropping notes, <br />Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed <br />Thee singing on a spray of branching beech, <br />Hidden, then seen; and always that same song <br />Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate, <br />Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood? <br /> <br />We do not know what bird thou art. Perhaps <br />That fairy bird, fabled in island tale, <br />Who never sings but once, and then his song <br />Is of such fearful beauty that he dies <br />From sheer exuberance of melody. <br /> <br />For this they took thee, little bird, for this <br />They captured thee, tilting among the leaves, <br />And stamped thee for a symbol on this book. <br />For it contains a song surpassing thine, <br />Richer, more sweet, more poignant. And the poet <br />Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart <br />Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew <br />A little while, and then he died; too frail <br />To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.<br /><br />Amy Lowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/suggested-by-the-cover-of-a-volume-of-keats-s-po/
