Classic Poem

I — A BLUEBIRD

Nobody has ever told how a bluebird sings.
It is like a butterfly whispering secrets to a pear-blossom;
It is like the elf-high blades in the oat-field telling each other how it feels to be up;
It is like the voice of a brook where it steps over a stone;
It is like a happy thought talking;
It is like the taste of spring-water;
It is like the brown glee of the ploughed ground.
Nobody has ever been able to tell how a bluebird sings,
And neither am I.

II — DOVES

Children like doves because of their sickle-wings,
With whistles under them.
Men like them for their gentle, still, grey manners —
They are never ruffled, like women.
Old people like doves because of their haunted voices:
They understand what they mean.
God likes doves because they are doves:
They mourn softly.

III — THE WREN

The wren's mind is in her tail,
But it is a charming tail,
And a brisk and whirring mind.
Once I caught a wren standing on tiptoe, peeking into my room.
I should have been shocked at such conduct in a thrush,
But I didn't mind it in a wren.

IV — THE WOOD-THRUSH, OR BELL-BIRD

The thrush knows a secret.
He knows why we came here,
And why we shouldn't mind dying.
He knows how the earth would look if you saw it from a star.
In winter he goes to heaven.
And yet, every spring,
He is just as pleased to see the first bluet,
And he takes just as good care of his children,
As if he didn't know anything else;
And I think cut-worms taste just as good to him
As they do to the wicked jay.

V — THE JAY

For the jay, you know, goes to the other place
Every Friday.
There he eats little singers in their speckled eggs,
And fireflies with their lights on,
And slim, green, boneless little lizards,
All day long,
Raw .
I can fancy their innocent tails sticking out of his mouth
When he swaggers up to my respectable food-shelf,
And helps himself contemptuously,
To show me that the vaunted crumbs of virtue
Are a mere appetizer to the bold and bad.
I don't argue with him:
I just love the good birds best.

VI — THE CARDINAL AND HIS LADY

The redbird is the core of fire at the heart of my still living;
And his little lady is the soft ashes covering the half-seen embers.