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.

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.

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!

This beau­ti­ful, mys­te­ri­ous thing,
This seem­ing vi­si­tant from Hea­ven
This bird, with the im­mor­tal wing,
To me—to me, Thy hand has giv­en.

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.

A si­lent awe is in my room,
I trem­ble with de­li­cious fear;
The fu­ture, with its light and gloom,
Time and eter­ni­ty, is here.

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.