Poems About Birds

Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions,(Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee,(Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.)

Far, far at sea,After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,The limpid spread of air cerulean,Thou also re-appearest.

Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,At dusk that look'st on Senegal, at morn America,That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul,What joys! what joys were thine!

A widow bird sate mourning for her Love Upon a wintry bough;The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground,And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?Who stole four eggs I laid,And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do;I gave you a wisp of hay,But didn't take your nest away.Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!Will you listen to me?

Silence instead of thy sweet song, my bird,Which through the darkness of my winter daysWarbling of summer sunshine still was heard;Mute is thy song, and vacant is thy place.

The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice,Carols of gladness ring from every tree;But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voiceNo more: my summer song has died with thee.

What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird?The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweepAnd whirling eddies by the home are heard,Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep.

O lonesome sea-gull, floating farOver the ocean's icy waste,Aimless and wide thy wanderings are,Forever vainly seeking rest:--Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

'Twixt wintry sea and wintry sky,Cleaving the keen air with thy breast,Thou sailest slowly, solemnly;No fetter on thy wing is pressed:--Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

O restless, homeless human soul,Following for aye thy nameless quest,The gulls float, and the billows roll;Thou watchest still, and questionest:--Where is thy mate, and where thy nest?

The robin sings of willow-buds,Of snowflakes on the green;The bluebird sings of Mayflowers,The crackling leaves between;The veery has a thousand talesTo tell to girl and boy;But the oriole, the oriole,Sings, "Joy! joy! joy!"

The pewee calls his little mate,Sweet Phoebe, gone astray,The warbler sings,"What fun, what fun,

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea,Why takest thou its melancholy voice,And with that boding cryWhy o'er the waves dost fly?O, rather, bird, with meThrough the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,As driven by a beating storm at sea;Thy cry is weak and scared,As if thy mates had sharedThe doom of us. Thy wail,--What doth it bring to me?

I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree,But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me.I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peerWith their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near;I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was goodTo leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood.

And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing;He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing.He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray,I would not harm him for the world, or interrupt his lay.Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness;It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness!

Birds are singing round my window,Tunes the sweetest ever heard,And I hang my cage there daily,But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled,And they sing there all day long:But they will not fold their pinionsIn the little cage of Song!

The robin and the red-breast,The sparrow and the wren;If ye take out o' their nest,Ye'll never thrive again!

The robin and the red-breast,The martin and the swallow;If ye touch one o' their eggs,Bad luck will surely follow!

AS in their flight the birds of songHalt here and there in sweet and sunny dales,But halt not overlong;The time one rural song to singThey pause; then following bounteous galesSteer forward on the wing:Sun-servers they, from first to last,Upon the sun they waitTo ride the sailing blast.

So he awhile in our contested state,Awhile abode, not longer, for his Sun—Mother we say, no tenderer name we know—

MY heart, when first the blackbird sings, My heart drinks in the song:Cool pleasure fills my bosom through And spreads each nerve along.

My bosom eddies quietly, My heart is stirred and coolAs when a wind-moved briar sweeps A stone into a pool

But unto thee, when thee I meet, My pulses thicken fast,As when the maddened lake grows black And ruffles in the blast.

Strenuous need that head-wind be From purposed voyage that drives at lastThe ship, sharp-braced and dogged still, Beating up against the blast.

Brigs that figs for market gather, Homeward-bound upon the stretch,Encounter oft this uglier weather Yet in end their port they fetch.

Mark yon craft from sunny Smyrna Glazed with ice in Boston Bay;Out they toss the fig-drums cheerly, Livelier for the frosty ray.

What if sleet off-shore assailed her, What though ice yet plate her yards;In wintry port not less she renders Summer’s gift with warm regards!

And, look, the underwriters’ man, Timely, when the stevedore’s done,Puts on his specs to pry and scan,And sets her down—A, No. 1.

Bravo, master! Bravo, brig! For slanting snows out of the WestNever the Snow-Bird cares one fig; And foul winds steady her, though a pest.

AROUND the house the flakes fly faster,And all the berries now are goneFrom holly and cotoneasterAround the house. The flakes fly!—fasterShutting indoors that crumb-outcasterWe used to see upon the lawnAround the house. The flakes fly faster,And all the berries now are gone!

WHEN I looked up at my love-birds That Sunday afternoon, There was in their tiny tuneA dying fetch like broken words,When I looked up at my love-birds That Sunday afternoon.

When he, too, scanned the love-birds On entering there that day, ’Twas as if he had nought to sayOf his long journey citywards,When he, too, scanned the love-birds, On entering there that day.

And billed and billed the love-birds, As ’twere in fond despair At the stress of silence whereHad once been tones in tenor thirds,And billed and billed the love-birds As ’twere in fond despair.

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds, And smote like death on me, As I learnt what was to be,And knew my life was broke in sherds!O, his speech that chilled the love-birds, And smote like death on me!

SO zestfully canst thou sing?And all this indignity,With God’s consent, on thee!Blinded ere yet a-wingBy the red-hot needle thou,I stand and wonder howSo zestfully thou canst sing!

Resenting not such wrong,Thy grievous pain forgot,Eternal dark thy lot,Groping thy whole life long;After that stab of fire;Enjailed in pitiless wire;Resenting not such wrong!

Who hath charity? This bird.Who suffereth long and is kind,Is not provoked, though blindAnd alive ensepulchred?Who hopeth, endureth all things?Who thinketh no evil, but sings?Who is divine? This bird.

THEY are not those who used to feed usWhen we were young—they cannot be—These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?They are not those who used to feed us,—For would they not fair terms concede us?—If hearts can house such treacheryThey are not those who used to feed usWhen we were young—they cannot be!

Once the Emperor Charles of Spain, With his swarthy, grave commanders,I forget in what campaign,Long besieged, in mud and rain, Some old frontier town of Flanders.

Up and down the dreary camp, In great boots of Spanish leather,Striding with a measured tramp,These Hidalgos, dull and damp, Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.

Thus as to and fro they went, Over upland and through hollow,

His caw is a cackle, his eye is dim,And he mopes all day on the lowest limb;Not a word says he, but he snaps his billAnd twitches his palsied head, as a quill,The ultimate plume of his pride and hope,Quits his now featherless nose-of-the-Pope,Leaving that eminence brown and bareExposed to the Prince of the Power of the Air.And he sits and he thinks: "I'm an old, old man,Mateless and chickless, the last of my clan,But I'd give the half of the days gone byTo perch once more on the branches high,And hear my great-grand-daddy's comical croaksIn authorized versions of Bulletin jokes."

In the wide bedUnder the green embroidered quiltWith flowers and leaves always in soft motionShe is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.

The hunter threw his dartAnd hit her breast,--Hit her but did not kill.“O my wings, lift me--lift me!I am not dreadfully hurt!”Down she dropped and was still.

Kind people come to the edge of the pool with baskets.“Of course what the poor bird wants is plenty of food!”

I climbed up the karaka treeInto a nest all made of leavesBut soft as feathers.I made up a song that went on singing all by itselfAnd hadn’t any words, but got sad at the end.There were daisies in the grass under the tree.I said just to try them:“I’ll bite off your heads and give them to my little children to eat.”But they didn’t believe I was a bird;They stayed quite open.The sky was like a blue nest with white feathersAnd the sun was the mother bird keeping it warm.That’s what my song said: though it hadn’t any words.Little Brother came up the patch, wheeling his barrow.I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet.Then when he was quite near I said: “Sweet, sweet!”For a moment he looked quite startled;Then he said: “Pooh, you’re not a bird; I can see your legs.”But the daisies didn’t really matter,And Little Brother didn’t really matter;I felt just like a bird.

Oh little bird, why flutter in my hand!O little heart, why quiver at my touch!My hand’s caress would make thee free as air;My touch must leave thy heart as large as love.

My hand, O sweet, is not a prison wall,My heart, dear heart, is not a cage for thee,My hand is but another bird to preen,My heart is but a hiding-nest and home.

My little bird, press to me heart to heart,Together with me nestle ’neath the bough,Wing with me infinite blue worlds, afar,Where all the clouds are free and winds are warm.

O sing with me, dear bird, the songs of heart,O sing to me, sweet heart, and sing with meOf all the bright thoughts of the upper air,And all the love notes ’neath the skies of dawn.

The birds that sing in the morning,Them I can understand:They call to one another proudly;Proudly they descant their songs;Proudly they look about, eager for response.

But the frogs that sing when it is evening;I cannot understand them:They sing all at once, each one attentive to himself;They stop all at once, none gives an answer;The frogs have voices, they have not ears.

Some men are like the birds;Some women are like the frogs.

A robin skimmed into the room, And blithe he looked and jolly,A foe to every sort of gloom, And, most, to melancholy.He cocked his head, he made no sound, But gave me stare for stare back,When, having fluttered round and round, He perched upon a chair-back.

I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew Too late his reckless error:Away in eager haste he flew, And at his tail flew terror.

On mighty pinions flying,The Bird of War, the Bird of War!

I shout to the skies!In triumph I shout!...The hollow sky answers me back....

Men live not forever,Men battle and die....Like eagles their souls ascend the hollow sky.

The warriors pass,The young men pass....In his place I cannot see him....

In the night I hear him crying,In the night I hear him pleading....The spirit stars are rising....

When they dug up my bones they painted them red....Red was upon my body when I died;I cannot forget how it was when I died.

Thrifty the folk in the town of Soleure, And they steadily ply their fathers' trade;Proud are they, too, that, year after year, The watches and clocks of the world they have made.

Click go the seconds, kling go the hours, In the town of Soleure the time is well kept!Ever, new steel they cut and trim, While into the street the filings are swept.

Only waste metal, unfit for use; But it catches the sunshine and glitters still--And what are those thrushes doing there, Each with a scrap of steel in its bill?

"And wherefore," the finch to the starling said,On the Christmas sheaf, as they hungrily fed,"Wherefore do now the children of menOpen their hands, when, again and again,They drove us away from their plenteous store,From the corn in the field, from the threshing-floor?""That," said the starling, "I'll try to explain:They are feasting, themselves, and they spare us this grain;For oft, as they feast and make merry, they sing,'Peace upon earth and good will'----" "But this thing"(Said the finch), "we birds have been singing all year,Then, why not before have they shared their good cheer?"

I listened to a summer brook That rippled past my shady seat;Now far, now near, now vague, now clear, The music of its liquid feet.

Few tones the slender rillet has has-- That few how sweet, how soothing sweet!A live delight, by day, by night, The music of its liquid feet!

While there I mused, a songbird lit And swung above my shady seat:He heard the brook, and straightway took The music of its liquid feet!

A bird's bright glance on me he bent,-- A bird's glance, fearless yet discreet;As who might say, "This roundelay Of liquid joy I can repeat!"

The mimic carol done, once more He needs must try its measures sweet;--Again, again, that rippling strain My songbird did repeat, repeat!

Since then I've learned that human breasts To few and simple measures beat;O blessed bird, my heart-warm word I, too, repeat, repeat, repeat!

Keep still in the nest, O my birdlings dear, While I search for a worm! Do not chirrup one word!There's a cruel tigress crouching so near-- For her hungry cubs she is seeking a bird!

Why, why, little bird, so cheerfully sing, When all things around look so sad?The prospect at present, as touching the spring, Gives cause to be sorry, not glad!

Had April appear'd in loveliest hue, And made the green meadows look gay,Thou merrily might'st have mounted thy bough, And warbled thy minutes away.

But summer's far off, and still in the copse, The cold winter's snow doth descend,Fierce winds, and sharp frosts, may yet blast thy hopes, And bring thy sweet song to an end.

By craft of the boys, in bush, or in wood, Thy foot may be caught in a snare,And thou whilst seeking a morsel of food, Be a captive, ere thou art aware.

Why merrily sing, when thou hast no barn, In which to lay up thy grain?Why warble thy notes, while unthankful man, So often is heard to complain?

Why cheerfully sing when there are no flowers, Or sun in the valley to shine?'Tis proof that thy prospects are brighter than ours, Thy heart more contented than mine!