The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 332 : BIRD SONG The robin sings of willow-buds, Of snowflakes on the green; The bluebird sin

BIRD SONG

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 tales To 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, To tilt upon the spray!"

The cuckoo has no song, but clucks, Like any wooden toy; But the oriole, the oriole, Sings, "Joy! joy! joy!"

The grosbeak sings the rose's birth, And paints her on his breast; The sparrow sings of speckled eggs, Soft brooded in the nest.

The wood-thrush sings of peace, "Sweet peace, Sweet peace," without alloy; But the oriole, the oriole, Sings "Joy! joy! joy!"

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE SONG THE ORIOLE SINGS

There is a bird that comes and sings In a professor's garden-trees; Upon the English oak he swings, And tilts and tosses in the breeze.

I know his name, I know his note, That so with rapture takes my soul; Like flame the gold beneath his throat, His glossy cope is black as coal.

O oriole, it is the song You sang me from the cottonwood, Too young to feel that I was young, Too glad to guess if life were good.

And while I hark, before my door, Adown the dusty Concord Road, The blue Miami flows once more As by the cottonwood it flowed.

And on the bank that rises steep, And pours a thousand tiny rills, From death and absence laugh and leap My school-mates to their flutter-mills.

The blackbirds jangle in the tops Of h.o.a.ry-antlered sycamores; The timorous killdee starts and stops Among the drift-wood on the sh.o.r.es.

Below, the bridge--a noonday fear Of dust and shadow shot with sun-- Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, Far unto alien coasts unknown.

And on these alien coasts, above, Where silver ripples break the stream's Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove A hidden parrot scolds and screams.

Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things: A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath-- It is a song the oriole sings-- And all the rest belongs to death.

But oriole, my oriole, Were some bright seraph sent from bliss With songs of heaven to win my soul From simple memories such as this,

What could he tell to tempt my ear From you? What high thing could there be, So tenderly and sweetly dear As my lost boyhood is to me?

William Dean Howells [1837-1920]

TO AN ORIOLE

How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly In tropic splendor through our Northern sky?

At some glad moment was it nature's choice To dower a sc.r.a.p of sunset with a voice?

Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black, In some forgotten garden, ages back,

Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard, Desire unspeakably to be a bird?

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

SONG: THE OWL

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the c.o.c.k hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

SWEET SUFFOLK OWL

Sweet Suffolk owl, so trimly dight With feathers, like a lady bright; Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night, "Te whit! Te whoo!"

Thy note that forth so freely rolls With shrill command the mouse controls; And sings a dirge for dying souls.

"Te whit! Te whoo!"

Thomas Vautor [fl. 1616]

THE PEWEE

The listening Dryads hushed the woods; The boughs were thick, and thin and few The golden ribbons fluttering through; Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods The lindens lifted to the blue: Only a little forest-brook The farthest hem of silence shook: When in the hollow shades I heard,-- Was it a spirit, or a bird?

Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, Some Peri calling to her mate, Whom nevermore her mate would cheer?

Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!"

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell With plashy pour, that scarce was sound, But only quiet less profound, A stillness fresh and audible: A yellow leaflet to the ground Whirled noiselessly: with wing of gloss A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, And, wavering brightly over it, Sat like a b.u.t.terfly alit: The owlet in his open door Stared roundly: while the breezes bore The plaint to far-off places drear,-- "Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer!"

To trace it in its green retreat I sought among the boughs in vain; And followed still the wandering strain, So melancholy and so sweet The dim-eyed violets yearned with pain.

'Twas now a sorrow in the air, Some nymph's immortalized despair Haunting the woods and waterfalls; And now, at long, sad intervals, Sitting unseen in dusky shade, His plaintive pipe some fairy played, With long-drawn cadence thin and clear,-- "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

Long-drawn and clear its closes were,-- As if the hand of Music through The somber robe of Silence drew A thread of golden gossamer: So pure a flute the fairy blew.

Like beggared princes of the wood, In silver rags the birches stood; The hemlocks, lordly counselors, Were dumb; the st.u.r.dy servitors, In beechen jackets patched and gray, Seemed waiting spellbound all the day That low, entrancing note to hear,-- "Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!"

I quit the search, and sat me down Beside the brook, irresolute, And watched a little bird in suit Of sober olive, soft and brown, Perched in the maple-branches, mute: With greenish gold its vest was fringed, Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, With ivory pale its wings were barred, And its dark eyes were tender-starred.