THE BIRDS 



To most of us, a bird's a feathered song 

 Which for our pleasure gives a voice to spring. 

 We make a symbol of its airy wing 



Bright with the liberty for which we long. 



Or we discover them with love more strong 

 As each a separate, individual thing 

 Which only learns to act, or move, or sing 



In ways that wholly to itself belong. 



But some with deeper and more inward sight 

 See them a part of that one Life which streams 



Slow on, towards more mind — a part more light 

 Then we; unburdened with regrets, or dreams, 



Or thought. A winged emotion of the sky, 



The birds through an eternal Present fly. 



Oxford, April 1923. 



