1 Ere last year’s moon had left the sky,
A birdling sought my Indian nest,
And folded, O, so lovingly!
Her tiny wings upon my breast.
2 From morn till evening’s purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies,
Two rose-leaves, with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.
3 There’s not in Ind a lovelier bird—
Broad earth owns not a happier nest—
O God! Thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters nevermore shall rest!
4 This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from Heaven
This bird, with the immortal wing,
To me—to me, Thy hand has given.
5 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,
The blood, its crimson hue from mine—
This life, which I have dared invoke,
Henceforth is parallel with Thine.
6 A silent awe is in my room,
I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity, is here.
7 Doubts—hopes, in eager tumult, rise—
Hear, O my God! one earnest prayer!
Room for my bird in paradise,
And give her angel plumage there.
Source: The Cyber Hymnal #11839
|Instances (1 - 1 of 1)||Title||First Line||Tune||Tune Key||Author||Meter||Scripture||Date||Subject||Source|
|The Cyber Hymnal #11839||My Bird||Ere last year’s moon had left the sky||WOODWORTH||Emily C. Judson||LM||<cite>Olio of Domestic Verses</cite>, 1852|