Sing to me, bird, and let thy strain ring clear,Chant, O thou bird, the anguish hidden here.
Pour forth thy melodies into the air,Perchance the song may prove the sick soul's care.
Perchance in song hope's bounty may be found,Perchance in song the burning wound grows sound.
Thou art art's sovereign, bird of hill and lea,Thou art truth's light in darkness' secrecy.
Guide thou the artist, bird of passion's fire,In songs, in dreams, in blessings of desire.
O artist, be not silent, nor yet drainThe cup of sorrow and of bitter pain.
O artist, I amid creation standAnd hear the deaf—yet know not deafness' band!
Bring, O thou bird, love's melodies to me,From passion's garden, rich in ecstasy.
Bring, O thou bird, hope's anthems to mine ear,In a fair hymn of notes surpassing clear.
Heal me, O bird—conceal this anxious dread,And hide the tears, or hide the pain instead.
Send forth the cry that hope shall animate,And breathe exultance in the spirit's gait.
How spent'st thou night, O bird of love's domain?How spent'st thou night complaining of thy pain?
O night of love, where is hope's vision fled?Where he for whom I wake lies still abed?
Where he whose heart love stormed and overthrew?Where he who spoke of love, or hid it too?
Sleep left thee as thy friend hath turned away,And company forsook thee as they may.
Yon star of love aspires with gleaming ray—Is it real? Or a dream that fades away?
It sends its radiance through the breast of night,It sends its echoes to the soul's delight.
Fly with love's inspiration—fear not men,And stand thy ground when peril comes again.
For thou alone, O bird, art truly freeIn worlds too narrow for humanity!
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