English poem
The Cypress
by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy (1844–1881)
O Ivory bird, that shakest thy wan plumes, And dost forget the sweetness of thy throat For a most strange and melancholy note— That wilt forsake the summer and the blooms And go to winter in a place remote!
The country where thou goest, Ivory bird! It hath no pleasant nesting-place for thee; There are no skies nor flowers fair to see, Nor any shade at noon—as I have heard— But the black shadow of the Cypress tree.
Cypress tree, it groweth on a mound; And sickly are the flowers it hath of May, Full of a false and subtle spell are they; For whoso breathes the scent of them around, He shall not see the happy Summer day.
In June, it bringeth forth, O Ivory bird! A winter berry, bitter as the sea; And whoso eateth of it, woe is he— He shall fall pale, and sleep—as I have heard— Long in the shadow of the Cypress tree.