Night Song

 

O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,

Singst thou now in nigritude:

The beautiful rhymed song,—

For whom? Wait who hung

In adopted nest and parents deceived;

Mistook as nestlings conceived.

O singer of conceited bravery,

On this night dreary,

Drive they competitors out

To eat whole food; become stout.

 

O foolish singing mother,

I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,

Spring abandoned thou either,

Summer gusts left thee alone,

Now, like nightingale thou singst

A long song for the night:

Feel I thy Florence nurst;

The rhymed heal over destruct,—

A day's war we swampt,

Thou now wander with the lyrical lamp.

 

How unmotherly thou art!

Not to pour ditty whole

Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,

Like black Goddess, thou dart

Across the blackness as the mother sole,

Lulling lolly thine match,

The life song over night's camp,

Thou keep life's lamp

Burning with thy awake,

Please, keep singing for our sake.