I
Bitter cold and snow-gray
The world beyond my window lay,
It seemed all life had crept away
In desperation;
When suddenly a bare branch stirred,
Across the pane a brown bunch whirred,
A voice in shrill defiance chirred
Vituperation.
Puffed wing and ruffed feather,
Scoffing, scolding all together,
What cared they how cold the weather
Or what betiding!
Here were troubles needing airing:
Raiding, nesting, laying, pairing,
Perhaps a lover's loud despairing
Or cruel deriding.
And I who'd heard it all before,
For twice ten thousand years or more,
At Babylon and Agincourt,
With heedless ears,
Now understood and felt the glamor
Of drama welded in the clamor
Of small tongues tripping like a hammer
Throughout the years.
II
You boastful brown belligerent little brat,
Despised by man but prized by every cat,
How oft you've wiped your bill on Pharaoh's hat,
And left a trace of whiting on the face
Of every god and devil where you've sat;
How many times have mated
While Demosthenes orated,
While Socrates debated,
While Cleopatra fêted,
While the twelve apostles waited
For Christ to break the bread in Simon's place!
How often, being sparrow, you've made sport
In Solomon's or Alexander's court,
Insolently careless of the sort
Of donkeys, kings and other braying things
That toiled and moiled around you in an ort,
So long as from withunder
All this bickering and blunder,
This inconsequential thunder,
Came the plenitude of plunder,
And of course you never wonder
At the scattering of largess Nature flings.
At Cannae, Crecy, Austerlitz, Cambral,
Before the broken bastions where we lay,
You wrangled fiercely in an iron spray
Over a crust of bread among the dead,
In your own sweet inimitable way;
Being just the same to you
Whether Cross or Crescent slew,
Whether ball or arrow flew;
For the immemorial stew
Rising still between you two
Was who should fill his belly with the bread.
III
The universe is yours
By dispossession,
And long as it endures
Must make concession
To such small prying plagues
Ubiquitous;
And while we shy a stone,
Ignore, denounce, condone,
You'll perch on every throne,
A yap on jiggy legs,
Iniquitous.
And though not beautiful
As man counts beauty,
Nor over dutiful
As we count duty,
Your vices large of size,
Your virtues few,
Forever down the ages,
Kings, soldiers, serfs and sages,
Priests, poets, peasants, pages,
Will lift their tired eyes
At squawk of you.
IV
What matter if the pageantry of time
Gives no great place to sparrows peccadillos!
Heroes can not be made by minstrel's rhyme,
Nor armorplate make men of armadillos.
Despised you may be by the worldly great,
Ignored by poets seeking inspiration;
Lovers will call on nightingales or fate
To give to passion vocal explication;
Castles have doves to hover round their towers,
Chimneys have storks to bring fertility,
Gardens have peacocks strutting through the flowers
And snow-white swans to gild gentility;
And yet immortal Sappho softly sings
Of Aphrodite borne by lovely legions
Of fluttering sparrows clouding with their wings
The flowery meadows of terrestrial regions.
Buddha and Brahma earnestly implored
Patience for sparrows scratching in the stalls,
And Jesus himself bears witness that the Lord
Is quick to mark each sparrow as it falls.
V
O mountebank in garb of black and tan!
O gutter-snipe and mendicant of dung!
O vagabond of dump and garbage-can!
There never was born a bird of braver tongue.
This you may boast amidst your teapot violence.
Viewing the world and everything that's in it,
Never were you reduced to sulky silence
Nor quelled your quarrels for one single minute.
In the beginning you watched the Lord creating,
And cocked your tail with all a sparrow's scorn;
No doubt the end will find you still berating,
Drowning the fiery blasts of Gabriel's horn.
Bitter cold and snow-gray
The world beyond my window lay,
It seemed all life had crept away
In desperation;
When suddenly a bare branch stirred,
Across the pane a brown bunch whirred,
A voice in shrill defiance chirred
Vituperation.
Puffed wing and ruffed feather,
Scoffing, scolding all together,
What cared they how cold the weather
Or what betiding!
Here were troubles needing airing:
Raiding, nesting, laying, pairing,
Perhaps a lover's loud despairing
Or cruel deriding.
And I who'd heard it all before,
For twice ten thousand years or more,
At Babylon and Agincourt,
With heedless ears,
Now understood and felt the glamor
Of drama welded in the clamor
Of small tongues tripping like a hammer
Throughout the years.
II
You boastful brown belligerent little brat,
Despised by man but prized by every cat,
How oft you've wiped your bill on Pharaoh's hat,
And left a trace of whiting on the face
Of every god and devil where you've sat;
How many times have mated
While Demosthenes orated,
While Socrates debated,
While Cleopatra fêted,
While the twelve apostles waited
For Christ to break the bread in Simon's place!
How often, being sparrow, you've made sport
In Solomon's or Alexander's court,
Insolently careless of the sort
Of donkeys, kings and other braying things
That toiled and moiled around you in an ort,
So long as from withunder
All this bickering and blunder,
This inconsequential thunder,
Came the plenitude of plunder,
And of course you never wonder
At the scattering of largess Nature flings.
At Cannae, Crecy, Austerlitz, Cambral,
Before the broken bastions where we lay,
You wrangled fiercely in an iron spray
Over a crust of bread among the dead,
In your own sweet inimitable way;
Being just the same to you
Whether Cross or Crescent slew,
Whether ball or arrow flew;
For the immemorial stew
Rising still between you two
Was who should fill his belly with the bread.
III
The universe is yours
By dispossession,
And long as it endures
Must make concession
To such small prying plagues
Ubiquitous;
And while we shy a stone,
Ignore, denounce, condone,
You'll perch on every throne,
A yap on jiggy legs,
Iniquitous.
And though not beautiful
As man counts beauty,
Nor over dutiful
As we count duty,
Your vices large of size,
Your virtues few,
Forever down the ages,
Kings, soldiers, serfs and sages,
Priests, poets, peasants, pages,
Will lift their tired eyes
At squawk of you.
IV
What matter if the pageantry of time
Gives no great place to sparrows peccadillos!
Heroes can not be made by minstrel's rhyme,
Nor armorplate make men of armadillos.
Despised you may be by the worldly great,
Ignored by poets seeking inspiration;
Lovers will call on nightingales or fate
To give to passion vocal explication;
Castles have doves to hover round their towers,
Chimneys have storks to bring fertility,
Gardens have peacocks strutting through the flowers
And snow-white swans to gild gentility;
And yet immortal Sappho softly sings
Of Aphrodite borne by lovely legions
Of fluttering sparrows clouding with their wings
The flowery meadows of terrestrial regions.
Buddha and Brahma earnestly implored
Patience for sparrows scratching in the stalls,
And Jesus himself bears witness that the Lord
Is quick to mark each sparrow as it falls.
V
O mountebank in garb of black and tan!
O gutter-snipe and mendicant of dung!
O vagabond of dump and garbage-can!
There never was born a bird of braver tongue.
This you may boast amidst your teapot violence.
Viewing the world and everything that's in it,
Never were you reduced to sulky silence
Nor quelled your quarrels for one single minute.
In the beginning you watched the Lord creating,
And cocked your tail with all a sparrow's scorn;
No doubt the end will find you still berating,
Drowning the fiery blasts of Gabriel's horn.