Sunday Songs

To hear an Oriole sing
May be a common thing —
Or only a divine.

It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd —

The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair —

So whether it be Rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.

The "Tune is in the Tree —"
The Skeptic — showeth me —
"No Sir! In Thee!”

Bind me -- I still can sing
Banish -- my mandolin
Strikes true within --.

Slay -- and my Soul shall rise
Chanting to Paradise --
Still thine.

I reason, Earth is short —
And Anguish — absolute —
And many hurt,
But, what of that?

I reason, we could die —
The best Vitality
Cannot excel Decay,
But, what of that?

I reason, that in Heaven —
Somehow, it will be even —
Some new Equation, given —
But, what of that?

Savior! I've no one else to tell --
And so I trouble thee.
I am the one forgot thee so --
Dost thou remember me?
Nor, for myself, I came so far --
That were the little load --
I brought thee the imperial Heart
I had not strength to hold --
The Heart I carried in my own --
Till mine too heavy grew --
Yet -- strangest -- heavier since it went --
Is it too large for you?

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —
I keep it, staying at Home —
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —
And an Orchard for a Dome —
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice —
I just wear my Wings —
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton—sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman —
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —
I'm going, all along.