OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
I see him in his cloistered gown, 
This tuneful eremite in gray, 
Swaying in rapture up and down 
On yon althea spray ? 
His passionate runs and tremolos, 
Transcend the clearest notes of art, 
As doth the peerless summer rose 
Its winter counterpart. 
His throat seems thrilled with lyric fire, 
And listening there thrills me through 
A touch of that divine desire 
The elder poets knew. 
My soul would search the secret springs 
Where life’s supremest meanings throng, 
Would set sublime celestial things 
To chords of earthly song, 
A sudden mellow change, and lo ! 
The impulse, like a ray, is gone, 
As from the clouds the vermeil glow 
At the full burst of dawn. 
Yet who shall say such sounds are sent 
Unto the spirit sense in vain ? 
Did it not hide some large intent, 
That bird song in the rain? 
