Sweet bird of twilight wake in me
Bright memories of melody
Outpoured from every nesting-tree
At early morning gray.
O sing that I may ponder on
The songs away with noontide gone,
Ere shadows troop across the lawn
And voices die away.
Long have I waited wistfully;
And lest thy gift unheeded be,
Lo, now my gardens are for thee,
Thou truant all the day!
Frank English.