This is the way the birdie sings:
"Baby birdies in the nest,
You I surely love the best;
Over you I fold my wings
This is the way the birdie sings.
This is the way the daylight dies:
Cows are lowing in the lane,
Fireflies wink on hill and plain;
Yellow, red, and purple skies,—
This is the way the daylight dies.
AND what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays:
Whether we look or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it which reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadow green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a blade or a leaf too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
A-tilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world and she to her nest,-
In the nice ear of nature which song is the best?
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been, 'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green; We sit in the warm shade and feel right well How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; We may
shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that springs are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house near-by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For other courtiers who should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-
And hark! how clear bold chanticleer
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!
'AY'S a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year;
Sweet it is to start and say
On May morning, "This is May!"
But there also breathes a tune,
Hear it, in the sound of "June."
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame.
Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer and a deepened tune
Of the bees, and of the birds,
And of loitering lover's words,
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low;
And the voice of early heat,
Where the mirth-spun insects meet;
And the very color's tone
Russet now, and fervid grown;
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
Oh, come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gypsy June.
FIELDS in June's fair verdure drest,
And vocal now with birds and bees! A toiler from the world's highways I turn, with willing feet to these, Inhaling here the morning breeze.
The air is moist with last night's rain,
Through op'ning clouds the sun appears,
The robin, earliest of the train
The plow-boy at his window hears,
Repeats the song of other years.
I tread with lighter steps anew
The pathways of my boyhood's morn;
The sky o'erhead is just as blue,
And just as green the springing corn,
And sweet the scent of thyme and thorn.
No care then rankled in my breast;
No sorrow on my spirit fell;
The cool green sward my bare feet prest,
The lowing herds they knew me well,
And I, the daisy in the dell.
|