FEATHERED PHILOSOPHERS 



You cannot with a scalpel find 



The poet's soul, or yet the wild bird's song. 



A Wood Song. 



Man's kingdom is a bit of ground 

 and his birthright a resting-place on 

 the earth's bosom. Out of the ground 

 grow the trees that hang their leaves in 

 the wind to shelter him, the flowers that 

 unfold in the sun, the ferns that deepen 

 the silence in the shadowy byways 

 where the lichens trace their crypto- 

 grams on the rocks. Above this bit of 

 ground is a scrap of sky holding its 

 rotary star treasure, showing the sea- 

 son's various signs, and on the ground, 

 in the trees, and in the sky, are the 

 birds ; through the heat, and in the 

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