The Mockingbird by Ingrid Crockett


From the topmost bough of an oak
He sprang on quivering wing,
And the waiting heart of the watcher
To the throb of the heart of Spring.
In rapture the wild flowers woke,
And Winter had passed away,
And a voice — a voice that had long been
Came back with that Singer in gray.
The brook with a lilt went by,
Ah, sweet was each pearly note,
But the song, the song was a rubaiyat
That poured from that magical throat!
A gleam of the infinite sky,
All beauty emprismed of light,
An out-leaping flame on the scintillant
Of color, entrancingly bright.
So still, so still were the trees,
As he flashed up in the sun —
Joy of the hopes of the happy young
And dreams of the rainbow spun.

So still, so still was the breeze,
As tho' it were suddenly blessed
By all of the upgathered fragrance of
In a blossom of Song confessed.
Out of the east came a dawn
Silvery, faery, low —
And the west with luminous scarlet and
Was all of a wondrous glow —
But the glory of day withdrawn,
And the beauty of moonlight's call,
Were as ashes of Love to the passion he
Whose song was the splendor of all.