I hear the thrush and blackbird sing,And blackbird sing.Their honied voices wake the sleeping spring,The slothful spring,And as each lovely note sighs forth and soars,Green to the bough doth come and bloom restoresThe earth from mourning for the year at rest.She holds the golden babe upon her breast,The new-born spring, the waking spring.Their glorious tune I dare not hear,I dare not hear.Nor April's flower behold without a tear,Without a tear.And friends soon come to beat upon my door,With ‘Open wide thy casement, for beforeWas never spring so fair nor song so sweet.’I push the bolt, and to my heart repeat,‘I dare not hear, I dare not hear.’And comes a child to call upon my name,Taps on the pane,‘Oh, look thou forth and listen, ne'er again,Oh, ne'er again
Shall thrush and blackbird sing as now they tuneTheir voice in chorus for the birth of June.’Swift from my window wide I lean and cry—What to his curious elders I deny—And speak my pain, and speak my pain.‘The blackbird's song, how can I hear,How can I hear,When he who held their singing ever dear,Who held it dear,Sleeps sound though all the golden thrushes sing.’Thus to the child still idly loiteringI weeping said, and he did make reply—‘How can he hear, when thou dost sob and cry;How can he hear; how can he hear?’Oh, little child, who would not me deceive,Thou dost believeThat his dear spirit still to earth doth cleave,Doth cling and cleave,And in the glory of the earthly airFinds gladness yet, and still can take a share.Nor lies he soulless in eternal sleep.I fling my casement wide, no more to weep,I must believe, I will believe.
Shall thrush and blackbird sing as now they tuneTheir voice in chorus for the birth of June.’Swift from my window wide I lean and cry—What to his curious elders I deny—And speak my pain, and speak my pain.‘The blackbird's song, how can I hear,How can I hear,When he who held their singing ever dear,Who held it dear,Sleeps sound though all the golden thrushes sing.’Thus to the child still idly loiteringI weeping said, and he did make reply—‘How can he hear, when thou dost sob and cry;How can he hear; how can he hear?’Oh, little child, who would not me deceive,Thou dost believeThat his dear spirit still to earth doth cleave,Doth cling and cleave,And in the glory of the earthly airFinds gladness yet, and still can take a share.Nor lies he soulless in eternal sleep.I fling my casement wide, no more to weep,I must believe, I will believe.
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About the poet
Dora Sigerson (1866–1918) was an Irish poet, who after her marriage in 1895 wrote under the name Dora Sigerson Shorter. She was born in Dublin, Ireland, the daughter of George Sigerson, a surgeon and writer, and Hester (née Varian) also a writer. She was a major figure of the Irish Literary revival, publishing many collections of poetry from 1893. Her friends included Katharine Tynan, a noted Irish-born poet and author.
Her husband was Clement King Shorter, an English journalist and literary critic. They lived together in London, until her death.
and writer, and Hester (née Varian) also a writer. She was a major figure of the Irish Literary rev
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