At sunset my brown nightingales Hidden and hushed all day, Ring vespers, while the color pales And fades to twilight gray: The little mellow bells they ring, The little flutes they play, Are soft as though for practising The things they want to say. It's when the dark has floated down To hide and guard and fold, I know their throats that look so brown, Are really made of gold. No music I have ever heard Can call as sweet as they! I wonder if it _is_ a bird That sings within the hidden tree, Or some shy angel calling me To follow far away?
Down from the sky on a sudden he drops Into the mullein and juniper tops, Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.
Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, Then with a flash of bewildering wings Dazzles away up and down, and he sings Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies Bounding along on the wave of the skies.
Sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire, Motion and melody married to fire, Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, Frailer than violets, how shall we find Words that will match him, discover a name Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?
How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, Find us a wonderful music to sing with him Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily High in the burning blue, winging so airily?
O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,-- The little mother-bird all brown, Who broods above her nest on high, And with her soft, bright eyes looks down To read the secret of my heart,-- We two from all the world apart!
She dreams there in her swaying nest; I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine. The same love stirs her feathered breast That makes my heart-throb seem divine. We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,-- The small brown mother-bird, and I.
An arrow, feathery, alive, He darts and sings,-- Then with a sudden skimming dive Of striped wings He finds a pine and, debonair, Makes with his mate All birds that ever rested there Articulate.
The whisper of a multitude Of happy wings Is round him, a returning brood, Each time he sings. Though heaven be not for them or him Yet he is wise, And daily tiptoes on the rim Of paradise.