O Birdie! Speak to Me

Speak from thy silent grave; It doth not roll o'er thee, Death's dark and Stygian wave! Sweet! speak, I'm sick, to hear The heaven of thy voice, Which wont, while life was dear, To thrill me and rejoice.

Speak, Birdie! speak to me! Speak from the flowers which bloom, Beneath the cedar tree That hides thy dearest tomb! Speak, angel! speak to me; I know thou art not dead, That the dear soul in thee But, bird-like, upward sped!

Yes! Birdie! speak to me, Maid most bright, most dear; Ask, if I'm true to thee, Ask if my grief's sincere? Ask if the warm tears roll From my devoted heart? O Birdie! then my soul In peace shall hence depart.