The Cypress

O Ivory bird, that shakest thy wan plumes, 
And dost forget the sweetness of thy throat 
For a most strange and melancholy note—
That wilt forsake the summer and the blooms 
And go to winter in a place remote!

The country where thou goest, Ivory bird!
It hath no pleasant nesting-place for thee; 
There are no skies nor flowers fair to see, 
Nor any shade at noon—as I have heard — 
But the black shadow of the Cypress tree.

The Cypress tree, it groweth on a mound; 
And sickly are the flowers it hath of May, 
Full of a false and subtle spell are they;
For whoso breathes the scent of them around, 
He shall not see the happy Summer day.

In June, it bringeth forth, O Ivory bird!
A winter berry, bitter as the sea; 
And whoso eateth of it, woe is he —
He shall fall pale, and sleep—as I have heard — 
Long in the shadow of the Cypress tree.