Classic Poem

The magpies in Picardy
—Are more than I can tell.
They flicker down the dusty roads
—And cast a magic spell
On the men who march through Picardy
—Through Picardy to hell.

(The blackbird flies with panic,
—The swallow goes like light,
The finches move like ladies,
—The owl floats by at night;
But the great and flashing magpie
—He flies as artists might.)

A magpie in Picardy
—Told me secret things—
Of the music in white feathers,
—And the sunlight that sings
And dances in deep shadows—
—He told me with his wings.

(The hawk is cruel and rigid,
—He watches from a height;
The rook is slow and somber,
—The robin loves to fight;
But the great and flashing magple
—He flies as lovers might.)

He told me that in Picardy,
—An age ago or more,
While all his fathers still were eggs,
—These dusty highways bore
Brown, singing soldiers marching out
—Through Picardy to war.

He said that still through chaos
—Works on the ancient plan,
And two things have altered not
—Since first the world began—
The beauty of the wild green earth
—And the bravery of man.

(For the sparrow flies unthinking
—And quarrels in his flight,
The heron trails his legs behind,
—The lark goes out of sight;
But the great and flashing magpie
—He flies as poets might.)