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Go, tell her through your chirping
Go, tune your voices' harmony,
Oh, fly! make haste! se, see,
I recall a place
If the little birds sing,
What the fun was I couldn't
Was it some prank of the prodigal
Was it soame chipmunk's chatter,
Still they flew tipsily, shaking
'Twas but the voice of a morning
Vain to conjecture the words
they are singing;
And from the realms
But the night is fair,
And above, in the light
I hear the beat
I hear the cry
Oh, say not so!
They are the throngs
This is the cry
From their distant flight
THEIR shadow dims the sunshine of our day,
As they go lumbering across the sky,
Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,
Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.
They scare the singing birds of earth away
As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,
Watching the toilers with malignant eye,
From their exclusive haven birds of prey.
They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,
And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.
They beat us to surrender weak with fright,
And tugging and tearing without let or pause,
They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,
And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
The huddled warmth of crowds
When flocks are folded warm,
If in the eagle's track
If you would keep your soul
And there hold intercourse
WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail,
'Tis Philomel the Nightingale;
Jug, jug, jug, tereu she cries,
And hating earth, to heaven she flies.
Ha, ha, hark, hark, the Cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the Spring.
Brave prick-song; who is't now we hear!
'Tis the Lark's silver lir-a-lir:
Chirrup, the Sparrow flies away;
For he fell to't ere break of day.
Ha, ha, hark hark; the Cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the Spring.
WHO shall thy gay buffoonery describe?
Winged mimic of the woods! thou motley fool!
Thine ever ready notes of ridicule
Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe.
Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe,
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school,
To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe,
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule!
For such thou art by day but all night long
Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain,
As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain,
Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong,
And sighing for thy motley coat again.
THERE is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
Up and down the dreary camp,
Thus as to and fro they went,
Yes, it was a swallow's nest,
Then an old Hidalgo said,
Hearing his imperial name
"Let no hand the bird
Swift as bowstring speeds a
So unharmed and unafraid
Then the army, elsewhere bent,
So it stood there all alone,
For: Lady Elizabeth and Count Palatine
wedding on St. Valentine's day
Hail Bishop Valentine, whose
day this is,
Till now, thou warmd'st with
Up then fair Phoenix bride,
frustrate the Sun,
Crisply the bright snow whispered,
Crunching beneath our feet;
Behind us as we walked along the parkway,
Our shadows danced,
Fantastic shapes in vivid blue.
Across the lake the skaters
Flew to and fro,
With sharp turns weaving
A frail invisible net.
In ecstacy the earth
Drank the silver sunlight;
In ecstacy the skaters
Drank the wine of speed;
In ecstacy we laughed
Drinking the wine of love.
Had not the music of our joy
Sounded its highest note?
For suddenly, with lifted eyes you said,
There, on the black bough of a snow flecked maple,
Fearless and gay as our love,
A bluejay cocked his crest!
Oh who can tell the range of joy
Or set the bounds of beauty?
Then loud-piping frogs make
the marshes to ring;
He flits through the orchards,
he visits each tree,
The ploughman is pleased when
he gleans in his train,
When all the gay scenes of
the summer are o'er,
While spring's lovely season,
serene, dewy, warm,
When maple orchards towered
Then came green meadows, broad
Upon the gray old forest's
And on the slope, above the
How like! and yet .
. . The spell grows weak:
The redbird, from the window
Flying through a cloud-made
Though never wind nor motion
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady, sweet, arise!
Go you and, with such glorious
Nay, lovely Bird, thou art
Little birds of the night
Aye, they have much to tell
Perching there in rows
Blinking at me with their serious eyes
Recounting of flowers they have seen and loved
Of meadows and groves of the distance
And pale sands at the foot of the sea
And breezes that fly in the leaves.
They are vast in experience
These little birds that come in the night
In bluest sky the fleece clouds
"Oh, tell my why,"
I weary cry,
Here in the fork
While we stand watching her
Soon the frail eggs they shall
Younger than we are,
We, so much older,
They shall go flying
In spite of our wisdom
Nay, barren are those mountains
and spent the streams:
Alone, aloud in the raptured
ear of men
The songster heard his short
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray,
Warbl'st at eve, when all the Woods are still
Thou with fresh hope the Lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow Cuckoo's bill
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some Grove nigh:
As thou from year to year hath sung too late
For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,
Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
Pussy said to the Owl, 'You
'Dear Pig, are you willing,
to sell for one shilling
"Don't you see, Mister
"I've studied owls,
"Examine those eyes.
"With some sawdust and
Just then, with a wink and
a sly normal lurch,
His voice and vivid colours
Reflective, but with never
a new thought
The Pen-guin sits up-on the shore
And loves the lit-tle fish to bore;
He has one en-er-vat-ing joke
That would a very Saint provoke:
"The Pen-guin's might-i-er than the sword-fish";
He tells this dai-ly to the bored fish,
Un-til they are so weak, they float
With-out re-sis-tance down his throat.
Ah, distinctly I remember it
was in the bleak December,
And the silken sad uncertain
rustling of each purple curtain
Presently my heart grew stronger;
hesitating then no longer,
Deep into that darkness peering,
long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Back into the chamber turning,
all my soul within me burning,
Open here I flung the shutter,
when, with many a flirt and flutter,
Then this ebony bird beguiling
my sad fancy into smiling,
Much I marvelled this ungainly
fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
But the raven, sitting lonely
on the placid bust, spoke only
Startled at the stillness broken
by reply so aptly spoken,
But the Raven still beguiling
all my sad soul into smiling,
This I sat engaged in guessing,
but no syllable expressing
Then, methought the air grew
denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
"Prophet!" said I,
"thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
"Prophet!' said I, "thing
of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
"Be that word our sign
of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting
And the raven, never flitting,
still is sitting, still is sitting
Brown and gold in the sun
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The fireside for the Cricket,
But hearken! Yonder russet
We watch the swans that sleep
in a shadowy place,
If thou didst feed on western plains of yore;
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor;
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat
From gipsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet;
If thy grey quills, by lawyer guided, trace
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race,
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet,
Wailing the rigour of his lady fair;
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil,
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil,
Departed Goose! I neither know nor care.
But this I know, that thou wert very fine,
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine.
Higher still and higher
In the golden lightning
The pale purple even
Keen as are the arrows
All the earth and air
What thou art we know not;
Like a poet hidden
Like a high-born maiden
Like a glow-worm golden
Like a rose embowered
Sound of vernal showers
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What objects are the fountains
With thy clear keen joyance
Waking or asleep,
We look before and after,
Yet if we could scorn
Better than all measures
Teach me half the gladness
Golden throated, joyous noted,
With thy trilling thou art
Cease your singing, cease your
His eye is dull, his head is
A Woodcock and a Daw sat upon a plain,
Both showed comparison each other to disdain.
"Back!" (quoth the Woodcock). "Straw for thee!" (quoth the Daw);
"Shall woodcocks keep daws now in dreadful awe?"
"None awe," (quoth the Woodcock), "but in behaviour,
Ye ought to reverence woodcocks, by your favour!"
"For what cause?" (quoth the Daw), "For your long bills?"
"Nay," (quoth the Woodcock) "but lords will, by their wills,
Rather have one woodcock than a thousand daws;
Woodcocks are meat, daws are carrion weigh this clause."
"Indeed, sir," (said the Daw), I must needs agree;
Lords love to eat you, and not to eat me
Cause of daws' courtesies! so, if woodcocks thus gather,
Ye shall have courtesy; for this, I would rather
Be a daw, and to woodcock courtesy make,
Than be a woodcock, and of daws courtesy take.
I would double a daw, had I not liever [desire]
Birders should, (in their birding endeavour),
Take up gins [traps] and alet me go when they geat [catch] me,
Than set gins to get me, for lords to eat me."
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