Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | November 5, 2008


by George William Russell  (1867 – 1935).




On me to rest, my bird, my bird:

    The swaying branches of my heart

Are blown by every wind toward

    The home whereto their wings depart.


Build not your nest, my bird, on me;                                5

    I know no peace but ever sway:

O lovely bird, be free, be free,

    On the wild music of the day.


But sometimes when your wings would rest,

    And winds are laid on quiet eves:                                10

Come, I will bear you breast to breast,

    And lap you close with loving leaves.



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