When the Tree-Sparrows

When the tree-sparrows with no sound through the pearl-pale
     air
Of dawn, down the apple-branches, stair by stair, 
With utmost, unforgettable, elegance and grace 
Descended to the bare ground (never bare
Of small strewn seeds
For forced-down flyers at this treacherous time of year), 
And richly and sweetly twittered there,
I pressed my forehead to the window, butting the cold glass 
Till I feared it might break, disturbing the sparrows, so let the
     moment pass
When I had hoped to recapture the rapture of my dark dream; 
I had heard as I awoke my own voice thinly scream,
"Where? in what street? (I knew the city) did they attack 
You, bound for home?"
You were, of course, not there.
And I of course wept, remembering where I last had met you, 
Yet clawed with desperate nails at the sliding dream, screaming 
     not to lose, since I cannot forget you.
I felt the hot tears come;
Streaming with useless tears, which make the ears roar and the
     eyelids swell,
My blind face sought the window-sill
To cry on—frozen mourning melted by sly sleep, 
Slapping hard-bought repose with quick successive blows until 
     it whimper and outright weep.

The tide pulls twice a day,
The sunlit and the moonlit tides
Drag the rough ledge away
And bring back seaweed, little else besides.
Oh, do not weep these tears salter than the flung spray!— 
Weepers are the sea's brides...
I mean this the drowning way.