Alabama, 191 5. 83 



TO A PHOEBE-BIRD 



UNDER the eaves, out of the wet, 

 You nest within my reach ; 

 You never sing for me and yet 

 You have a golden speech. 



You sit and quirk a rapid tail, 



Wrinkle a ragged crest, 

 Then pirouet from tree to rail 



And vault from rail to nest. 



And when in frequent, witty fright 



You grayly slip and fade, 

 And when at hand you re-alight 



Demure and unafraid, 



And when you bring your brood its fill 



Of iridescent wings 

 And green legs dewy in your bill, 



Your silence is what sings. 



Not of a feather that enjoys 



To prate or praise or preach, 

 O Phcebe, with your lack of noise, 



What eloquence you teach! 



Witter Bynner. 



