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.
Asian Birds
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