English poem
_My Little Bird._
by J. Wm. Lloyd (1857–1940)
Oh little bird, why flutter in my hand! O little heart, why quiver at my touch! My hand’s caress would make thee free as air; My touch must leave thy heart as large as love.
My hand, O sweet, is not a prison wall, My heart, dear heart, is not a cage for thee, My hand is but another bird to preen, My heart is but a hiding-nest and home.
My little bird, press to me heart to heart, Together with me nestle ’neath the bough, Wing with me infinite blue worlds, afar, Where all the clouds are free and winds are warm.
O sing with me, dear bird, the songs of heart, O sing to me, sweet heart, and sing with me Of all the bright thoughts of the upper air, And all the love notes ’neath the skies of dawn.
Why speak of wasted love? Love is a circle, it pays its own debt.
The lover is an artist in touch.