04/25/2026
My Threnody,
by Julia S. Dinsmore
Birds, I must leave you all;
As you fly in the fall,
So when days shorten and the sunshine wanes,
I, too, must hie,
To lands that lie
Past the strait gate where ceaseless silence reigns,
So, birds, I bid you all
Come to my funeral,
And sing some sweet impromptu threnody;
But if you feel too shy,
Come singly, by and by,
And to the stillness chant your elegy.
Bluebird, I pray you hear,
Come when you first appear;
Let your fine tracks be seen
In the light snows that screen
The hopeful grass already turning green;
In true love’s color dight,
Warble that spring is come;
Even my darksome home
Would at the sweet familiar sound grow bright
O robin, if you miss my welcome, haste!
Fly to my narrow mound,
Bringing one sere, dead leaf
In token of your grief,
And lay it where my heart lies underground.
Then tell me all: how china-berries taste,
How orange flowers and magnolias smell
In that far region that we love so well;
What fun you had in swamp and wild canebrake,
‘Mong bayous, black as Styx, that gently glide
‘Mid cypresses moss-muffled on each side,
Toward the blue gulf’s resistless, restless tide;
And then forego
A worm or so,
To sing one little song for old time’s sake.
O redbird, fold your wings
Weary with wonderings,
And on these hospitable branches rest.
Like a pomegranate flower
In the dark foliage of the cedar tree,
Shine out and sing for me,
Sing by the hour, --the hour!
That bush would hide your nest,
That so your fiery breast
Might warm again with love’s wild melody
The heart by earth and silence so oppressed.
Fieldlark, with yellow breast,
Sometimes I loved you best;
When slowly riding by,
On a fence stake, back-tilted,
Fearless of me you lilted
To the blue boundless sky.
Come, turn your primrose throat,
And with your sweetest note
Sing me good-bye.
The graveyard lies so near
The woods, that I might hear,
Save for that silence dear,
The sad, self-centered whip-poor-will’s refrain,
And by his dirge might know,
Though idle down below,
The glad corn-planting time has come again.
The turtle dove upon the broad copestone
Shall linger long enough to make his moan,
Then fly for comfort to his faithful mate.
And birds too small to name,
But friendly all the same,
Shall chirp upon the spearheads of the gate;
And visitants more rare
Come flashing through the air,
To sing their farewells where I lie and wait;
And for a last goodnight,
In some serene twilight,
To love and memory dear,
The brown thrush, hidden in the deepest shade,
Shall in his sweetheart’s ear
Pour his pathetic, passionate serenade.
O, buzzards, sailing by,
To light, aloof and high,
On the tall tulip trees so close and grand,
I leave a word for you;
For in your element I like you, too—
Have loved to stand
Below the blue, with eager eyes up-bent,
To see you circle in your eerie play,
Your weird, winged sun-dance in the firmament.
Oft, when you fly this way,
Let your swift shadows pass
Across the parching grass
That wraps me, on some sultry summer day.
And, oh, my dear bob-white, -
Loved to your quaint topknot, -
If by next year
One asks, “Is she forgot?”
Say, loud and clear,
So even I might hear,
Save for that silence drear,
“Not quite! Not quite!”
