Sparrow and nightingale — did ever such
Strange birds consort in one untravelled heart?
And yet when signs of summer, and what signs
Of the keen snows humanity hath passed
To come to this wild apple-day! To think
So young a throat might rave so old a tune!
Youth’s amber eyes reflect such ardent stars,
And capture heav’n with glancing! Was she not
Learn’d by some angel from her mother’s womb
At last to be Love’s mistress? doth not he
Rest all his arrows now and mutely adream
Seek his own peace un her Italian locks?
Cometh not Romeo singing in the night? —
Singing of youth — whose clustering locks do nod
And weave confusing shadows o’er his brow.
Sing on bright tongue and quench these fears of silence! —
But at the end waits Death to pluck his bloom,
Which is of yew the everlasting star.



 = Shelley Johnson