From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia


BIRDS, fly away over land and sea,
Seeking their sunny home;
The winds are wandering strong and free,
Wherever they choose to roam.

Light leaps down from the upper air
Unto his loving flowers;
Darkness comes to his shadowy lair
In the deep tangled bowers.

The rain comes when the fields athirst
Look panting up to heaven;
The dew-drops in the soft air nursed
Come to their buds at even.

Spring comes to the patient earth
And melts away her snows;
And summer with her songs of mirth
Comes singing to the rose.

But ah! thou dost not come to me,
Like the wind, the dew and the sun,
Nor can I wing my way to thee,
My own, my blessed one!

July, 1842.

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