I WHISPERED to the bobolink:
“Sweet singer of the field,
Teach me a song to reach a heart
In maiden armor steeled.”
“If there be such a song,” sang he,
“No bird can tell its mystery.”
I bent above the sweetest rose,
A deeper sweet to stir —
“O Rose,” I begged, “what charm will wake
The deep, sweet heart of her?”
“Alas, poor lover,” sighed the rose,
“The charm you seek no flower knows.”
I wandered by the midnight lake
Where heaven lay confessed
“Tell me,” I cried, “what draws the stars
To lie upon your breast?”
The silence woke to soft reply
“When Heaven stoops — demand not why!”
“Alas, sweet maid, love's potent charm
I cannot beg or buy,
I cannot wrest it from the wind
Or steal it from the sky —”
Breathless, I caught her whisper low,
“I love you — why, I do not know!”