376 POEMS 
THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE 
A WINGED sunbeam flashes through the trees 
And whistles thrice, as if the air took voice 
And all the embodied springtime cried, 
“ Rejoice!” 
The jocund notes enchant the morning 
breeze, 
Now here, now there, still shifting as they 
please, — 
“© fear not ! all is well since I am here.” 
The blind, the imprisoned, know that cry 
of cheer, 
And grief must yield to joy’s blithe litanies. 
A myriad blossoms cluster round his feet, 
And all the air is full of heaven-sent things, 
Hark ! once again the jubilant treble rings, 
Swift as that hurrying flight, though wild and 
sweet. 
What room is left for meanness or deceit 
Or fear, in planets where the oriole sings? 
