_And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand-- So what could I do but laugh and go?_ RICHARD LE GALLIENNE THE HUMMINGBIRD Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away! Hi! little rover, stop and stay. Merry, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag! Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier-- Was ever a bee merrier, airier? Wings folded so, a second or two-- Was ever a crow more solemn than you? A-whirr again over the garden, away! Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay? Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss! What do you know that we humans miss? In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, In the rose's palace, what do they tell (When the door you bob in, airily) That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?-- Fearing the crew of chatter and song, And tell to you of the chantless tongue? Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the sting Masked in gay dress and whirring wing? Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff! What need to sing? Here's music enough. A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through! Hi! little rover, fair travel to you. Sweet, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag! HERMANN HAGEDORN SPRING SONG Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood song with the ancient thrill. Gossiping on the countryside, Spring and the wandering breezes say God has thrown heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day. WILLIAM GRIFFITH NIGHTINGALES 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? GRACE HAZARD CONKLING THE GOLDFINCH 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.