Poet: Emily Dickinson
Within my Garden, rides a Bird
Upon a single Wheel -
Whose spokes a dizzy Music make
As 'twere a travelling Mill -
He never stops, but slackens
Above the Ripest Rose -
Partakes without alighting
And praises as he goes,
Till every spice is tasted -
And then his Fairy Gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres -
And I rejoin my Dog,
And He and I, perplex us,
If positive, 'twere we -
Or bore the Garden in the Brain
This Curiosity -
But He, the best Logician,
Refers my clumsy eye -
To just vibrating Blossoms!
An Exquisite Reply!
Poem by Harry Kemp
The sunlight speaks. And it's voice is a bird:
It glitters half-guessed half seen half-heard
Above the flower bed. Over the lawn ...
A flashing dip and it is gone.
And all it lends to the eye is this -
A sunbeam giving the air a kiss.
Poet: Mary C. Plummer
O ye happy little birds.
That circle through the air;
Would that I your life could lead -
Not a sorrow, not a care.
Happy every fleeting hour.
As you fly from bower to bower,
Chirping tones of mirth and glee.
Praising God who keepeth thee.
Some day happy little birds
You will fly so high.
Until you reach the heaven of heaven.
And, to me, you'll sing good-bye.
Poet: Christopher Pearse Cranch
When nature had made all her birds,
With no more cares to think on,
She gave a rippling laugh, and out
There flew a Bobolinkon!
One springs from out the dew-wet grass;
Another follows after;
The morn is thrilling with their songs
And peals of fairy laughter.
O boundless self-contentment, voiced
In flying air-born bubbles!
O joy that mocks our sad unrest,
And drowns our earth-born troubles!
Your drunken jargon through the fields.
Your bobohnkish gabble.
Your fine Anacreontic glee.
Your tipsy reveller's babble!
O could I share, without champagne
Or muscadel, your frolic,
The glad delirium of your joy,
Your fun unapostolic.
Poet: Minnie Willis Baines
There's a bird in my heart that sings
A melody sweet and fine;
Throughout his canticle rings
The strain of a love divine;
And the purpose his music moves —
The key of his minstrelsy —
Is the theme my spirit loves,
A Saviour that saveth me.
"Me — Me!" the echo rings
Of the song the sweet bird sings.
Poet: Robert Louis Stevenson
Birds all the sunny day
Flutter and quarrel
Here in the arbour-like
Tent of the laurel.
Here in the fork
The brown nest is seated;
Four little blue eggs
The mother keeps heated.
While we stand watching her
Staring like gabies,
Safe in each egg are the
Bird's little babies.
Soon the frail eggs they shall
Chip, and upspringing
Make all the April woods
Merry with singing.
Younger than we are,
O children, and frailer,
Soon in blue air they'll be,
Singer and sailor.
We, so much older,
Taller and stronger,
We shall look down on the
Birdies no longer.
They shall go flying
With musical speeches
High over head in the
Tops of the beeches.
In spite of our wisdom
And sensible talking,
We on our feet must go
Plodding and walking.
Poet: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"
In the winter they're silent -the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving - all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he -
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"
Poet: Emily Dickinson
A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad, -
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.
Poet: Alice Cary
Has the Spring come back, my darling,
Has the long and soaking rain
Been moulded into the tender leaves
Of the gay and growing grain -
The leaves so sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain?
O, and I would I could see them grow,
O, and I would I ould see them blow.
All over field and plain -
The billows sweet of barley and wheat
All moulded out of the rain.
Are the flowers dressed out, my darling
In their kerchiefs plain or bright -
The groundwort gay, and the lady of May,
In her petticoat pink and white?
The fair little flowers, the rare little flowers.
Taking and making the light?
O, and I would I could see them all,
The little and low, the proud and tall.
In their kerchiefs brave and bright,
Stealing out of the moms and eves.
To braid embroidery round their leaves,
The gold and scarlet light.
Have the birds come back, my darling.
The birds from over the sea?
Are they cooing and courting together
In bush and bower and tree?
The mad little birds, the glad little birds.
The birds from over the sea!
O, and I would I could hear them sing,
O, and I would I could see them swing
In the top of our garden tree!
The mad little birds, the glad little birds.
The birds from over the sea!
Are they building their nests, my darling,
In the stubble, brittle and brown?
Are they gathering threads, and silken shreds,
And wisps of wool and down.
With their silver throats and speckled coats,
And eyes so bright and so brown?
O, and I would I could see them make
And line their nests for love's sweet sake,
With shreds of wool and down.
With their eyes so bright and brown!
Poet: William W. Caldwell
From the elm-tree's topmost bough,
Hark! the robin's early song!
Telling one and all that now
Merry springtime hastes along;
Welcome tidings dost thou bring,
Little harbinger of spring:
Robin's come.
Of the winter we are weary,
Weary of the frost and snow;
Longing for the sunshine cheery,
And the brooklet's gurgling flow;
Gladly then we hear thee sing
The joyful reveille of spring:
Robin's come.
Ring it out o'er hill and plain,
Through the garden's lonely bowers,
Till the green leaves dance again,
Till the air is sweet with flowers!
Wake the cowslips by the rill,
Wake the yellow daffodil:
Robin's come.
Then, as thou wert wont of yore,
Build thy nest and rear thy young
Close beside our cottage door,
In the woodbine leaves among;
Hurt or harm thou need'st not fear,
Nothing rude shall venture near:
Robin's come.
Singing still in yonder lane,
Robin answers merrily;
Ravished by the sweet refrain,
Alice clasps her hands in glee,
Calling from the open door,
With her soft voice o'er and o'er,
Robin's come.
Poet: Joel T. Hart
Fleet-flying gem, of burnished crest
And silver-tipped wing,
With azure, gold, and sapphire breast;
Aeolian captive thing!
Tell me the secret of thy song,
And whence thy robe of beams,
If to the earth thou dost belong,
Or Paradise of dreams.
Born for one season of a ray,
To banquet 'mid the bowers,
Or wilt thou chant another May,
Sweet minstrel of the flowers?
The coyest honeysuckles still
Their daintiest buds unfold,
For thee to kiss, with honeyed bill,
Their nectar lips of gold.
The lily opes its snowy cells,
The pink, its crimson door.
"Sip! " whispers every fond bluebell,
"My honey to the core."
While blushing flowers for thee all fling
Their fragrance on the air,
The purple morning-glories cling
On high in beauty bare.
The tiny chalice of the thyme,
And daisies, plead below,
Each dewy-eyed, too small to climb,
"Come, kiss me ere you go."
Away on thy melodious wing
To Love's mysterious bowers,
Still thy free band of minstrels bring
To revel 'mid the flowers.
Breathe on their bosoms fair and sweet,
And rosy lips apart,
And give and take, in Love's retreat,
The honey of the heart.
Poet: Unknown
There's a nest in the hedge-row,
Half bid by the leaves,
And the sprays, white with blossom,
Bend o'er it like eaves.
God gives birds their lodging,
He gives them their food,
And they trust He will give them
Whatever is good.
Ah! when our rich blessings,
My child, we forget;
When for some little trouble
We murmur and fret;
Hear sweet voices singing
In hedges and trees:
Shall we be less thankful,
Less trustful than these?
Poet: Maude Waddell
Out of the darkness, out of the night
The mocking birds' songs arise,
Lilting with sweetness, sorrow and light
They drift as the clouds in the skies;
Up to the silvery moon's bright height.
Up to a glistening star,
The notes of the songsters heard in the night
Are the cries that come from afar.
Caught on the waves of the Summer's soft breath
Some notes are those of a thrush,
That tell of the Autumn and Summer's quick death
And the snow with its deadening hush;
And some are the cries of a gull as it flies
In circles o'er ocean and river.
On night winds that lift in the moon's soft drift
To set the sweet marshes aquiver.
This music that floats from the mocking birds' throats
Is a composite cry of the years,
From birds that have flown and hearts that have grown
In a garden that's watered with tears;
But sweet are the sounds through the night's long rounds,
And precious the thoughts that they bring,
For night has its morn and day has dawn,
And Winters are followed by Spring.
Poet: James Hogg
Bird of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and mountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place
O to abide in the desert with thee!
