1. Neighbors
Birds aren't people one has to walk to:
Stay where you are, they'll come to you, talk too.
What's in gadding in search of a neighbor?
Far too much distance, much too much labor.
Chat about trifles, argue a season,
Surely you'll find no roots to grow trees on?
All conclusions descend to the trivial
Unless they sing and the song's convivial.
So don't stray off but sit down and be swayed
By idleness eyeing a fiery parade
Of robins, swallows, thrushes, sparrows,
Coming like lightning, going like arrows.
2. Hermit Thrush
It's hard to count what an air can do:
It cannot buy one a shirt or shoe:
It cannot bind a neat nest or things
For leaving the earth on floating wings:
Nothing of twigs in it, nothing of roots,
But something of rivers, a little of flutes
That I've heard rippling a bodiless tune
That gathered me into a small balloon
And took me high without writing a check,
Then let me down without breaking my neck:
No effort at all: I was absent-minded:
Don't even know now what the air or the wind did.
3. Peewee
Is it a wish, that tiny tin whistle
Out on a leafless branch throwing a missile
Wrapped in a dip and a lift like a bow
Of rain turned somersault, curve down below,
Tip-dip-tipping a phrase and a blow,
Releasing a flute in a piccolo,
And striking an ear with a short thin dart,
Pinning a secret one hides in the heart?
If it isn't a wish, why does it tarry?
If it wasn't fulfilled, how far did it carry?
Was it too stunted to be sentimental?
Or much too local to be continental?
4. Robin
He takes a lot of staccato steps, stops
Like a busy toe-dancer with dizzy tops
That never cease spinning, twinkling a minute,
Until they come to the end of what's in it.
He runs on a line like a tight-rope walker;
Tries not to look scared nor to answer a talker.
He might be as deaf as a man who surveys
Two spots with a string for the high wire ways.
No matter how fast he may go or stop dead
He holds his head still, an oblivious head;
But just down below, they twist and they squirm —
Like a terrified crowd, or an angle worm.
5. City Chap
Who's that dusty stranger? What's he doing here?
That city-bred bird with the ill-bred leer?
Perching on branches like telegraph wires?
Chirping his slang above passionate fires?
Poking his head about, twitching his tail?
Getting drunk in our pools as if they were ale?
Never accepting but stealing our rations?
Acting toward us as he would to relations?
Who asked him hither, what led him this way?
With his critical carping, his mockery, eh?
And worse than all these, he's a jerky reminder
Of winters, towns, and of people no kinder.
6. Swallows
They're not going travelling for many a day:
They don't attempt branches, they seek it in clay:
First they start holes and then dig in hollows:
Excavate caverns to lay future swallows:
A gray crumbling chapel best for the landing:
Too old for man — not too old to be standing:
A haunt no one visits, come west or come east,
Unless he is harmless, some hermit or priest
Who walks in a plot shaded green, an area
Between pater noster and ave maria.
If he should look up and see birds, the chance is
He'll be but a lover: another St. Francis.
7. Eggs At Ease
When a song meets a song and fire greets fire,
Not quite conscious of the life they desire,
Groping no longer, the two ecstasies
Look for a landing to hatch eggs at ease.
Some scud to cliffs and wild ledges that dangle.
Some prefer trees with a tight, acute angle.
If there's garrulity under the leaves,
Others seek privacy under the eaves.
All can use homes made of feathers and peace,
Sheltered from accident, clouds, enemies.
Telegraph poles are a woodpecker seat.
People choose houses along a safe street.
8. Song Sparrow
He stutters and stammers, a catch in his throat.
Chromatics falter, too many notes float.
Beginnings too eager, scales all uncertain —
Come to a cadence, too careful the curtain.
The thing that he studies — flattering, fluttering —
Might be called song could the fellow but sing
From the start of a phrase to the end of a sentence,
And not be pursued and caught up by repentance.
Who would consider such doings professional?
The little he does, does it sound processional?
And still he persists and resists till he find
A channel for opening the way to his mind.
Birds aren't people one has to walk to:
Stay where you are, they'll come to you, talk too.
What's in gadding in search of a neighbor?
Far too much distance, much too much labor.
Chat about trifles, argue a season,
Surely you'll find no roots to grow trees on?
All conclusions descend to the trivial
Unless they sing and the song's convivial.
So don't stray off but sit down and be swayed
By idleness eyeing a fiery parade
Of robins, swallows, thrushes, sparrows,
Coming like lightning, going like arrows.
2. Hermit Thrush
It's hard to count what an air can do:
It cannot buy one a shirt or shoe:
It cannot bind a neat nest or things
For leaving the earth on floating wings:
Nothing of twigs in it, nothing of roots,
But something of rivers, a little of flutes
That I've heard rippling a bodiless tune
That gathered me into a small balloon
And took me high without writing a check,
Then let me down without breaking my neck:
No effort at all: I was absent-minded:
Don't even know now what the air or the wind did.
3. Peewee
Is it a wish, that tiny tin whistle
Out on a leafless branch throwing a missile
Wrapped in a dip and a lift like a bow
Of rain turned somersault, curve down below,
Tip-dip-tipping a phrase and a blow,
Releasing a flute in a piccolo,
And striking an ear with a short thin dart,
Pinning a secret one hides in the heart?
If it isn't a wish, why does it tarry?
If it wasn't fulfilled, how far did it carry?
Was it too stunted to be sentimental?
Or much too local to be continental?
4. Robin
He takes a lot of staccato steps, stops
Like a busy toe-dancer with dizzy tops
That never cease spinning, twinkling a minute,
Until they come to the end of what's in it.
He runs on a line like a tight-rope walker;
Tries not to look scared nor to answer a talker.
He might be as deaf as a man who surveys
Two spots with a string for the high wire ways.
No matter how fast he may go or stop dead
He holds his head still, an oblivious head;
But just down below, they twist and they squirm —
Like a terrified crowd, or an angle worm.
5. City Chap
Who's that dusty stranger? What's he doing here?
That city-bred bird with the ill-bred leer?
Perching on branches like telegraph wires?
Chirping his slang above passionate fires?
Poking his head about, twitching his tail?
Getting drunk in our pools as if they were ale?
Never accepting but stealing our rations?
Acting toward us as he would to relations?
Who asked him hither, what led him this way?
With his critical carping, his mockery, eh?
And worse than all these, he's a jerky reminder
Of winters, towns, and of people no kinder.
6. Swallows
They're not going travelling for many a day:
They don't attempt branches, they seek it in clay:
First they start holes and then dig in hollows:
Excavate caverns to lay future swallows:
A gray crumbling chapel best for the landing:
Too old for man — not too old to be standing:
A haunt no one visits, come west or come east,
Unless he is harmless, some hermit or priest
Who walks in a plot shaded green, an area
Between pater noster and ave maria.
If he should look up and see birds, the chance is
He'll be but a lover: another St. Francis.
7. Eggs At Ease
When a song meets a song and fire greets fire,
Not quite conscious of the life they desire,
Groping no longer, the two ecstasies
Look for a landing to hatch eggs at ease.
Some scud to cliffs and wild ledges that dangle.
Some prefer trees with a tight, acute angle.
If there's garrulity under the leaves,
Others seek privacy under the eaves.
All can use homes made of feathers and peace,
Sheltered from accident, clouds, enemies.
Telegraph poles are a woodpecker seat.
People choose houses along a safe street.
8. Song Sparrow
He stutters and stammers, a catch in his throat.
Chromatics falter, too many notes float.
Beginnings too eager, scales all uncertain —
Come to a cadence, too careful the curtain.
The thing that he studies — flattering, fluttering —
Might be called song could the fellow but sing
From the start of a phrase to the end of a sentence,
And not be pursued and caught up by repentance.
Who would consider such doings professional?
The little he does, does it sound processional?
And still he persists and resists till he find
A channel for opening the way to his mind.
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