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? ODELL SHEPARD KINFOLK 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. KATE WHITING PATCH A MOCKING-BIRD 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. WITTER BYNNER THE CARDINAL-BIRD Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along, A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song, My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing, Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring. A plump little prelate, the park is his church; The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch; And there, in his rubicund livery dressed, Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest, He preaches, with most unconventional glee, A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me, Commending the wisdom of those that display The brightest of colors when heavens are gray. ARTHUR GUITERMAN YELLOW WARBLERS The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies, When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes, I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,-- A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,-- Beyond my casement had been void of song.