Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling,
Over sands and sedges shines the evening star,
And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing,
Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are—
Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder,
Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest,
But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder,
Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest.
Katharine Tynan Hinkson
ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS
Little sisters, the birds,
We must praise God, you and I—
You with songs that fill the sky;
I, with halting words.
All things tell His praise,
Woods and waters thereof sing,
Summer, winter, autumn, spring,
And the nights and days.
Yea, and cold and heat,
And the sun, and stars, and moon,
Sea with her monotonous tune,
Rain and hail and sleet.
And the winds of heaven,
And the solemn hills of blue,
And the brown earth and the dew,
And the thunder even,
And the flowers' sweet breath,—
All things make one glorious voice;
Life with fleeting pains and joys
And our brother—Death.
Little flowers of air,
With your feathers soft and sleek
And your bright brown eyes and meek,
He hath made you fair.
He hath taught to you
Skill to weave on tree and thatch
Nests where happy mothers hatch
Speckled eggs of blue.