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The Linnet And The Cat

WHEN fading Autumn's latest hours
Strip the brown wood, and chill the flowers,--
When evening, wint'ry, short, and pale,
Expires in many a hollow gale,--
And only morn herself looks gay,
When first she throws her quiv'ring ray
Where the light frost congeals the dew,
Flushing the turf with purple hue;
Gay bloom, whose transient glow can shed
A charm like Summer when 'tis fled!--
A Linnet among leafless trees
Sung, in the pauses of the breeze,

His farewell note, to fancy dear,
That ends the music of the year.
The short'ning day, the sadd'ning sky,
With frost and famine low'ring nigh;
The Summer's dirge he seem'd to sing,
And droop'd his elegiac wing.
Poor Bird! he read amiss his fate,

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poem by Helen Maria Williams
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A Linnet In A Gilded Cage

A linnet in a gilded cage, -
A linnet on a bough, -
In frosty winter one might doubt
Which bird is luckier now.
But let the trees burst out in leaf,
And nests be on the bough,
Which linnet is the luckier bird,
Oh who could doubt it now?

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Song

A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart to-day);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,

And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: "Not yet.")
I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing) ;

Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro' ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: "So soon?")

Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart to-day) ;
The last gold bit of upland 's mown,

And most of summer has blown away

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poem by Trumbull Stickney from Dramatic Verses (1902)
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The Happy Bird’s Nest

When on my cottage falls the placid shower,
When ev'ning calls the labourer home to rest,
When glad the bee deserts the humid flower,
O then the bird assumes her peaceful nest.

When sable shadows grow unshapely tall,
And Sol's resplendent wheel descends the west,
The knell of respiration tolls for all,
And Hesper smiles upon the linnet's nest.

When o'er the mountain bounds the fair gazell,
The night bird tells her day-departing jest,
She gladly leaves her melancholy dell,
And spreads her pinions o'er the linnet's nest.

Then harmless Dian spreads her lucid sail,
And glides through ether with her silver crest,
Bidding the watchful bird still pour her tale,
And cheer the happy linnet on her nest.

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poem by George Moses Horton
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The Hares, A Fable.

Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earth
Are doom'd to trouble from their birth.
We all of sorrow have our share;
But say, is yours without compare?
Look round the world; perhaps you'll find
Each individual of our kind
Press'd with an equal load of ill,
Equal at least. Look further still,
And own your lamentable case
Is little short of happiness.
In yonder hut that stands alone
Attend to Famine's feeble moan;
Or view the couch where Sickness lies,
Mark his pale cheek, and languid eyes,
His frame by strong convulsion torn,
His struggling sighs, and looks forlorn.
Or see, transfix'd with keener pangs,
Where o'er his hoard the miser hangs;
Whistles the wind; he starts, he stares,
Nor Slumber's balmy blessing shares,

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poem by James Beattie
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A Prayer for my Daughter

Once more the storm is howling and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's Wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,

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poem by William Butler Yeats from Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1919)
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sweet Springtime

It was in the prime
Of the sweet springtime
In the linnet's throat
Trembled the love note,
And the love-stirred air
Thrilled the blossoms there.
Little shadows danced,
Each a tiny elf
Happy in large light
And the thinnest self.

It was but a minute
In a far-off spring,
But each gentle thing,
Sweetly wooing linnet,
Soft thrilled hawthorn tree,
Happy shadowy elf,
With the thinnest self,
Live on still in me.
It was in the prime

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poem by George Eliot
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His Footstep

To Lady Wemyss

The boy will come no more
Although I listen and long;
The sound of his foot on the floor
Was like an old song.

His foot had the music in it,
And now the music's dumb --
Like the song of the lark or linnet
Glad that Spring's come.

There's nothing stirring at all, --
'Tis quiet all by yourself, --
But a wee mouse in the wall,
The clock ticks on the shelf.

Like the song of the lark or linnet,
That's singing early and soon,

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The bell of Knutsford’s many throng

A young queen dances around the Knutsford maypole!
As though she lingered within some fathomless dream
Lifting joyful ribbon arms like a linnet on the breeze;
She’d fare thought this world should float!
Beneath her bantam feathered rose petal feet.

But soon she’ll forgo and loosen off her fairy wings.
And steal naked through the world that forged,
Forged her simple warm gracious, dreams:
But till then... her heart will beat the linnet’s song,
And dance the bell of Knutsford’s many throng.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

MY limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For calling on my Lady's name
My lips have now forgot to sing.

O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.

She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtezan
Or moon-lit water in the night.

Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.

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poem by Oscar Wilde
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