A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS 
565 
XII 
BIRDS IN SPRING 
THE ANGLER’S REVEILLE 
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, 
And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light, 
’Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, 
And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. 
This is the carol the Robin throws 
Over the edge of the valley; 
Listen how boldly it flows, 
Sally on sally: 
Tirra-lirra, down the river, 
Laughing ivater all a-quiver. 
Day is near , clear, clear. 
Fish are breaking, 
Time for waking. 
Tup, tup, tup! 
Do you hear? All clear. 
Wake up! 
The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, 
And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; 
Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, 
While every voice cries out “ Rejoice! ” as if the world were new. 
This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, 
Unto his mate replying, 
Shaking the tune from his wings 
While he is flying: 
Surely, surely, surely, 
Life is dear 
Even here. 
Blue above, 
You to love, 
Purely, purely, purely. 
There’s wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, 
And just a spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; 
The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, 
Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. 
This is the song of the Yellowthroat, 
Fluttering gaily beside you ; 
Hear how each voluble note 
Offers to guide you : 
