Dead Birds and Easter
God thought it worth His while to make a bird —
A joyous creature that could soar and float
With sweetest melody man ever heard,
Caught in the feathered meshes of its throat.
And this rare thing with God's own touch upon it
Is rended wing from wing to trim a bonnet!
It is an Easter morning, holy, calm, —
And life, not death, is the glad theme to-day.
The air is full of Spring's delicious balm,
The maple buds are dropping on the way.
And one I saw, with flush of crimson on it,
Fall on the dead birds of a woman's bonnet!
What say the bells at these good Easter times?
They tell of vanquished death, and risen life!
Hush then, O bells, your inconsistent chimes.
You and the dull old world are hard at strife;
For surely when the crimson leaf fell on it,
I saw dead birds upon a woman's bonnet!
What does it cost, this garniture of death?
It costs the life that God alone can give,
It costs dull silence where was music's breath,
It costs dead joy that foolish pride may live;
Ah, Life and Love and Joy, depend upon it,
Are costly trimmings for a woman's bonnet!
Who would arrest the sweet pulse of a lark
That flutters in such ecstasy of bliss,
Or lay a robin's bright breast cold and stark
For such a petty recompense as this?
O, you who love your babies, think upon it.
Mothers are slaughtered just to trim your bonnet!
Will Herod never cease to rule the land
That we should slay sweet innocency so?
Is joy so cheap, or happiness sure planned?
Tell me, you who are intimate with woe —
Does your sad heart proclaim no ban upon it?
Would you slay happiness just for a bonnet?
And must God's choirs that through His forests rove
Whose matinees are free to high and low, —
Must His own orchestra of fields and grove,
Himself their leader, be disbanded so?
Nay, nay, O God, proclaim thy ban upon it.
Protect thy birds from sport, and greed, and bonnet!
Dead birds, and dead for gentle woman's sake
To feed awhile her vanity's poor breath!
And yet the foolish bells sweet clamor make
And tell of One whose power has vanquished death.
Ah, Easter time has a reproach upon it
While birds are slain to trim a woman's bonnet!
A joyous creature that could soar and float
With sweetest melody man ever heard,
Caught in the feathered meshes of its throat.
And this rare thing with God's own touch upon it
Is rended wing from wing to trim a bonnet!
It is an Easter morning, holy, calm, —
And life, not death, is the glad theme to-day.
The air is full of Spring's delicious balm,
The maple buds are dropping on the way.
And one I saw, with flush of crimson on it,
Fall on the dead birds of a woman's bonnet!
What say the bells at these good Easter times?
They tell of vanquished death, and risen life!
Hush then, O bells, your inconsistent chimes.
You and the dull old world are hard at strife;
For surely when the crimson leaf fell on it,
I saw dead birds upon a woman's bonnet!
What does it cost, this garniture of death?
It costs the life that God alone can give,
It costs dull silence where was music's breath,
It costs dead joy that foolish pride may live;
Ah, Life and Love and Joy, depend upon it,
Are costly trimmings for a woman's bonnet!
Who would arrest the sweet pulse of a lark
That flutters in such ecstasy of bliss,
Or lay a robin's bright breast cold and stark
For such a petty recompense as this?
O, you who love your babies, think upon it.
Mothers are slaughtered just to trim your bonnet!
Will Herod never cease to rule the land
That we should slay sweet innocency so?
Is joy so cheap, or happiness sure planned?
Tell me, you who are intimate with woe —
Does your sad heart proclaim no ban upon it?
Would you slay happiness just for a bonnet?
And must God's choirs that through His forests rove
Whose matinees are free to high and low, —
Must His own orchestra of fields and grove,
Himself their leader, be disbanded so?
Nay, nay, O God, proclaim thy ban upon it.
Protect thy birds from sport, and greed, and bonnet!
Dead birds, and dead for gentle woman's sake
To feed awhile her vanity's poor breath!
And yet the foolish bells sweet clamor make
And tell of One whose power has vanquished death.
Ah, Easter time has a reproach upon it
While birds are slain to trim a woman's bonnet!
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