Flight

The song-birds? are they flown away? The song-birds of the summer-time, That sang their souls into the day, And set the laughing days to rhyme?— No catbird scatters through the hush The sparkling crystals of its song; Within the woods no hermit-thrush Trails an enchanted flute along, A sweet assertion of the hush. All day the crows fly cawing past; The acorns drop; the forests scowl; At night I hear the bitter blast Hoot with the hooting of the owl. The wild creeks freeze; the ways are strewn With leaves that rot: beneath the tree The bird, that set its toil to tune, And made a home for melody, Lies dead beneath the death-white moon.