The voices from the bough
Do carol clear enow:
The eglantine in many a bush
Doth to the light her blossoms push;
While I sing diligently
And strive for my poor bread.
The bough to the birds all
Is a high heavenly hall,
And to the enamelled eglantine
The ceiling of her quiet shrine;
But I say sorrowfully,
Ah me, the homeless head!
The sparrow hath his mate
And is not desolate:
The flower, complete unto herself,
Never pursues a wraithy elf:
O black-eyed Melancholy,
I never shall be wed!
1917.