THE GREY BIRD

The wind blows Heavy with spice. Among macaws and birds of paradise With plumage grey he goes. Silence hangs like a cloud; Yet lives innumerable teem. The wild eyes of the crowd Of watching creatures with a sullen gleam The forest haunt. The birds flaunt Their vivid hues, and scream, Yet leave the smothering silence still supreme. And the bird with the grey wing Unnoticed flies. No finery or glow Has he to show, Nor in this land unhallowed will he sing. But in the tropic heat, When March is ablaze, Strange instincts beat In his breast. He is full of amaze, He suffers a sweet unrest, And though Unheeded still he flutter to and fro, Yet in foreknowledge of a gentle Spring He turns and fondles oft in his warm throat The pure, the lovely note He soon shall sing— When, in a land of the West, In England, over the foam, After long voyage his tired wings come to rest And his glad heart finds home. Then hark how he shall spill His liquid miracle, Hark to the thrill Of the secret song, The gay tune hid so long! See on a twig scarce bent, Mid leafage cool Of oak or birch Or willow-fringe about a reedy pool, How he shall choose his perch And make wild music out of souls content. How he shall love! How he shall sing! How he shall rove With a careless wing! How in this Isle Of Splendid Voice, Home from exile He shall rejoice! How his golden song shall be spent Forgetting the foul, fierce continent!