The Song of the Birds

(Netherwood, Palm Sunday, 46 e.v.)

     They twitter and they coo and they warble as they woo

          And I don't know about what they want to sing.

     But it really doesn't matter—it is mostly idle chatter

          Like a vaudevillist's patter—

               Just a spot of everything.

     Yet I feel that if I heard the romance of every bird

          Comprehending every trill and every phrase,

     I should feel that I were one with their

               delight and greet the sun with

     Songs of rapture, overrun with

               their antiphony of praise.

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