Other swans have nests made 'mid the reeds and rushes, Lined with downy feathers where the cygnets sleep Dreaming, if a bird dreams, till the daylight blushes, Then they sail out swiftly on the current deep, With the proud swan-father, tall, and strong, and stately, And the mild swan-mother, grave with household cares, All well-born and comely, all rejoicing greatly: Full of honest pleasure is a life like theirs. But alas! for my swans, with the human nature, Sick with human longings, starved with human ties, With their hearts all human, cramped in a bird's stature, And the human weeping in the bird's soft eyes. Never shall my swans build nests in some green river, Never fly to southward in the autumn grey, Rear no tender children, love no mates for ever, Robbed alike of bird's joys and of man's are they. Babbled Conn the youngest, 'Sister, I remember At my father's palace how I went in silk, Ate the juicy deer-flesh roasted from the ember, Drank from golden goblets my child's draught of milk. Once I rode a-hunting, laughed to see the hurly, Shouted at the ball-play, on the lake did row; You had for your beauty gauds that shone so rarely': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.' 'Sister,' saith Fiachra, 'well do I remember How the flaming torches lit the banquet hall, And the fire leaped skyward in the mid-December, And amid the rushes slept our staghounds tall. By our father's right hand you sat shyly gazing, Smiling half and sighing, with your eyes aglow, As the bards sang loudly, all your beauty praising'; 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.' 'Sister,' then saith Hugh, 'most do I remember One I called my brother, you, earth's goodliest man, Strong as forest oaks are where the wild vines clamber, First at feast or hunting, in the battle's van. Angus, you were handsome, wise and true and tender, Loved by every comrade, feared by every foe: Low, low lies your beauty, all forgot your splendour': 'Peace,' saith Finnuola, 'that was long ago.' Dews are in the clear air, and the roselight paling, Over sands and sedges shines the evening star, And the moon's disk high in heaven is sailing, Silvered all the spear-heads of the rushes are-- Housed warm are all things as the night grows colder, Water-fowl and sky-fowl dreamless in the nest, But the swans go drifting, drooping wings and shoulder, Cleaving the still waters where the fishes rest. _Katharine Tynan Hinkson_ ST. FRANCIS TO THE BIRDS Little sisters, the birds, We must praise God, you and I-- You with songs that fill the sky; I, with halting words.