A Book on Birds 



Held awhile in icy thraldom, 



Quicken to the sound; 

 Wake, arise, and — laughing gently, 



Leave the bonds that bound. 



Hark, I hear across the distance 



Even now your wings, 

 Beating glad the empyrean 



Where the South-wind sings! 



And at times the evening air 

 Seemeth strangely bright, 



As with some mirage, reflecting 

 Your imperial flight. 



While a thrill of deep expectance 



Stirs the silent waste: 

 Angel of the lengthening days, 



Haste, haste, haste! 



[180 



