Alilt against the emerald sky,
A tiny violet songster swings,
Clutching a branch, in ecstasy
Of light and height and skiey things.
Singing, he swings; and swinging, I
For once am showered with joy of wings.
Keen and pure, of a magic power,
Thy rapture stirs what was never stirred.
Thou hast brought to earth a cloudland dower,
The joy of the small sweet singing bird.
All time is richer for thy hour
Of delicate music, gravely heard.
Does the iris droop beneath the heat?
Its weariness finds voice in thee.
Does the pheasant run with snow-clogged feet?
Winter is theirs who thy vision see.
Is summer's glow to the swallow sweet?
Thou hast captured its summer eternally.
Each thou hast wrought as a lyric note
Pure with one mood of sky and trees
And flowers, and tiny lives that float
Or dart or poise in world of these.
The painter's hand, the thrush's throat—
Which masters best these melodies?
Gusty rain through the tree-tops blown
And a bird that scuds where the grey gusts hiss—
Sapphire wings and a golden crown
Flung skyward in unconscious bliss—
No rare enchanted bird has known
As thou hast known the savour of this!
And winning it, thou hast cast aside
Thy native bonds of mortal birth,
Flinging the spirit-pinions wide
Above this world of weary worth,
To float and poise and skyward ride
With those whose realm is not the earth—
The peacock in his proud repose—
Wild geese that rush across the moon—
The little sleepy owl that knows
The wind-among-the-tree-tops tune—
The kingfisher that darts and glows
Over the reeds of the lagoon—
The flower-lured humming-bird that weaves
Spirals more delicate than they—
Sanderlings that on moonlit eves
Over the wave-crest swoop and play—
The crane that shores of sunset leaves
For sunset skies of far away.
