Afloat on lazy air-cry on! Send down The voice of hope and dauntless will, Hamlin Garland [1860 THE CROW WITH rakish eye and plenished crop, Upon the naked ash-tree top The Crow sits basking in the sun. An old ungodly rogue, I wot! For, perched in black against the blue, His feathers, torn with beak and shot, Let woeful glints of April through. The year's new grass, and, golden-eyed, And chestnut-trees on either side But doubtful still of frost and snow, TO THE CUCKOO HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! What time the daisy decks the green, Hast thou a star to guide thy path, The Cuckoo Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet 1489 The school-boy, wandering through the wood Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fli'st thy vocal vale, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, O could I fly, I'd fly with thee! John Logan [1748-1788] THE CUCKOO WE heard it calling, clear and low, We heard it, ay, long years ago. It came, and with a strange, sweet cry, In dreamland then we found our joy, And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird That Helen in old times had heard At noon beneath the oaks of Troy. O time far off, and yet so near! It came to her in that hushed grove, It warbled while the wooing throve, It sang the song she loved to hear. And now I hear its voice again, And still its message is of peace, It sings of love that will not ceaseFor me it never sings in vain. Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895] TO THE CUCKOO O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days Which made me look a thousand ways, To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. HE clasps the crag with crooked hands; The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892] THE HAWKBIT How sweetly on the autumn scene, The hawkbit shines with face of cheer, The favorite of the faltering year! When days grow short and nights grow cold, How fairly gleams its eye of gold It seems the spirit of a flower, A dandelion's ghost might so THE HERON O MELANCHOLY Bird, a winter's day God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey; And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair: Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829] THE JACKDAW THERE is a bird, who by his coat, A great frequenter of the church, Above the steeple shines a plate, From what point blows the weather; |