They seem to a foe mere machines for his thrall.
When sleep is departed, thoughts, talents return,
One’s foe so comes back, has of war one more turn.
With dawn, all our thoughts, all our talents, awake,
As erst, good or bad; ere repose we could take.
So carrier pigeons, wherever they’ve been,
Return to their homes, quit the woodlands all green.145
We see, thus, that all things revert to their source.
Parts ever must go shares in whole’s intercourse.
So soon as our bird heard that parrot’s sad state,