362 GRAY LADY AND THE BIRDS 
Then from the honeysuckle gray 
The Oriole with experienced quest 
Twitches the fibrous bark away, 
The cordage of his hammock-nest, 
Cheering his labour with a note 
Rich as the orange of his throat. 
High o’er the loud and dusty road 
The soft gray cup in safety swings, 
To brim ere August with its load 
Of downy breasts and throbbing wings, 
O’er which the friendly elm tree heaves 
An emerald roof with sculptured eaves. 
Below, the noisy world drags by 
In the old way, because it must; 
The bride with heartbreak in her eye, 
The mourner following hated dust ; 
Thy duty, winged flame of spring, 
Is but to love, and fly, and sing. 
O happy life, to soar and sway 
Above the life by mortals led, 
Singing the merry months away, 
Master, not slave of daily bread, 
And, when the autumn comes, to flee 
Wherever sunshine beckons thee ! 
— James RussELL LOWELL. 
OUT OF THE SOUTH 
A migrant song-bird I, 
Out of the blue, between the sea and the sky, 
Landward blown on bright, untiring wings; 
Out of the South I fly, 
Urged by some vague, strange force of destiny, 
To where the young wheat springs, 
