THE BIRD OF TIME
O Bird of Time on your fruitful bough
What are the songs you sing? . . .
Songs of the glory and gladness of life,
Of poignant sorrow and passionate strife
And the lilting joy of the spring;
Of hope that sows for the years unborn
And faith that dreams of a tarrying morn
The fragrant peace of the twilight’s breath,
And the mystic silence that men call death.
O Bird of Time, say where did you learn
The changing measures you sing ? ..
In blowing forests and breaking tides,
In the happy laughter of new-made brides,
And the nests of the new-born spring;
In the dawn that thrills to a mother’s prayer
And the night that shelters a heart’s despair
In the sigh of pity, the sob of hate,
And the pride of a soul that has conquered fate.
Sarojini Naidu
PIGEONS
By what mistake were pigeons made so happy,
So plump and fat and sleek and well content,
So little with the affairs of others meddling,
So little meddled with? say, a collared dog,
And hard worked ox, and horse still harder worked,
And caged canary, why, uncribbed, unmaimed,
Unworked and of its will lord absolute,
The pigeon sole has free board and free quarters,
Till at its throat the knife, and pigeon pie
Must smoke ere noon upon the parson’s table;
Say, if ye can; I cannot, for the life o’ me;
But, whersoe’er I go, I find it so;
The pigeon of all things that walk or fly
Or swim or creep, the best cared-for and happiest
Ornament ever fresh and ever fair
Of castle and of cottage, palace roof
And village street, alike, and stubble field,
And every eye and volute of the minster;
Philosopher’s and poet’s and my own
Envy and admiration, theme and riddle
Emblem and hieroglyphic of the third
Integral unit of the Trinity;
Not even by pagan set to heavier task
Than draw the cart of Venus; since the deluge
Never once asked to carry in the bill,
And by the telegraph and penny-post
Released for ever from all charge of letters.
James Henry
PAPER BIRDS
Our minds have become intimate with words.
We fly together like two paper birds.
Small creeks, big rivers and the mighty sea,
Sustains the lyrics of calligraphy.
My friend, the lamp of sunset lights the grass.
Leaves paint old panes with poems of stained glass.
Deft fingers pluck the lyre-strings of the heart.
Emotion is as beautiful as art.
Sandra Fowler
SYMPATHY
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats its wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing !
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings !
Paul Laurence Dunbar
…..
