High through the mournful mist that blots our day Their songs betray them soaring in the grey. See them! Nay, they In sunlight swim; above the furthest stain Of cloud attain; their hearts in music rain Upon the plain. Sweet birds, far out of sight Your songs of pleasure Dome us with joy as bright As heaven’s best azure. 7 THE PALM WILLOW See, whirling snow sprinkles the starvèd fields, The birds have stayed to sing; No covert yet their fairy harbour yields. When cometh Spring? Ah! in their tiny throats what songs unborn Are quenched each morn. The lenten lilies, through the frost that push, Their yellow heads withhold: The woodland willow stands a lonely bush Of nebulous gold; There the Spring-goddess cowers in faint attire Of frightened fire. 8 ASIAN BIRDS In this May-month, by grace of heaven, things shoot apace. The waiting multitude of fair boughs in the wood, How few days have arrayed their beauty in green shade What have I seen or heard? it was the yellow bird Sang in the tree: he flew a flame against the blue; Upward he flashed. Again, hark! ’tis his heavenly strain. Another! Hush! Behold, many, like boats of gold, From waving branch to branch their airy bodies launch. What music is like this, where each note is a kiss? The golden willows lift their boughs the sun to sift: Their sprays they droop to screen the sky with veils of green, A floating cage of song, where feathered lovers throng. How the delicious notes come bubbling from their throats! Full and sweet how they are shed like round pearls from a thread! The motions of their flight are wishes of delight. Hearing their song I trace the secret of their grace. Ah, could I this fair time so fashion into rhyme, The poem that I sing would be the voice of spring. 9 JANUARY Cold is the winter day, misty and dark: The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent; And patches of thin snow outlying, mark The landscape with a drear disfigurement. The trees their mournful branches lift aloft: The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust, With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft; The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust. No birds sing, but the starling chaps his bill And chatters mockingly; the newborn lambs Within their strawbuilt fold beneath the hill Answer with plaintive cry their bleating dams.