THE BIRDS. 



They are swaying in the marshes, 



They are swinging in the glen, 

 Where the cat-tails air their brushes 



In the zephyrs of the fen; 

 In the swamp's deserted tangle, 



Where the reed-grass whets its scythes; 

 In the dismal, creepy quagmire. 



Where the snake-gourd twists and writhes. 



They are singing in arroyos, 



Where the cactus mails its breast. 

 Where the Spanish bayonet glistens 



On the steep bank's rocky crest; 

 In the canon, where the cascade 



Sets its pearls in maiden-hair. 

 Where the hay and holly beckon 



Valley sun and mountain air. 



They are nesting in the elbow 



Of the scrub-oak's knotty arm, 

 In the gray mesh of the sage-brush, 



In the wheat-fields of the farm; 

 In the banks along the sea beach, 



In the vine above my door. 

 In the outstretched clumsy fingers 



Of the mottled sycamore. 



While the church-bell rings its discourse 



They are sitting on the spires; 

 Song and anthem, psalm and carol 



Quaver as from mystic lyres. 

 Everywhere they flirt and flutter. 



Mate and nest in shrub and tree. 

 Charmed, I wander yon and hither, 



While their beauties ravish me, 



Till my musings sing like thrushes. 



And my heart is like a nest, 

 Softly lined with tender fancies 



Plucked from Nature's mother-breast. 



— Elizabeth Grinnell, in " Birds of Song and Story." 



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