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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Glad Bird, I Do Bewail Thee
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Glad bird, I do bewail thee,
 Thy song it was so sweet
 That Earth looked up to hail thee
 Till wings grew to her feet.
 But, ah! thy mate is lying dead
 Among the new--mown hay,
 And a fowler comes to jail thee
 Where thou shalt pine away.

 Bright butterfly, I wail thee,
 So dainty was thy wing,
 So bravely didst regale thee
 On every honied thing.
 But thou art all too lightly clad
 For any month but May,
 And Autumn rains shall trail thee
 And wash thy paint away.

 Sweet childhood, I bewail thee.
 Thy smile it shifteth ever
 As the ship that thou dost sail thee
 Adown the running river.
 But ah! life`s river runneth fast
 And forward lies the sea,
 And what shall then avail thee
 Thy laughter and thy glee?

 And youth, I most bewail thee,
 Thy purpose was so great,
 But the fools that did assail thee
 Were stronger than thy fate,
 And thy heart it was so ruddy red
 That every archer knew
 Where he might best impale thee
 And drive his arrows through.
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