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! ’t is 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 silken streamers screen   the sky with veils of green, To make a 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.