The Poet to the Birds by Alice Meynell — Read

You bid me hold my peace,

Or so I think, you birds; you'll not forgive

My kill-joy song that makes the wild song cease,

Silent or fugitive.

Yon thrush stopt in mid-phrase

At my mere footfall; and a longer note

Took wing and fled afield, and went its ways

Within the blackbird's throat.

Hereditary song, / Illyrian lark and Paduan nightingale, / Is yours, unchangeable the ages long; / Assyria heard your tale;

Therefore you do not die.

But single, local, lonely, mortal, new, / Unlike, and thus like all my race, am I, / Preluding my adieu.

My human song must be / My human thought. Be patient till 'tis done.

I shall not hold my little peace; for me / There is no peace but one.