I said: A feathered choir in the leafy heights are singing
A farewell to the West where the evening sun dreams low,
And the passion of their song sets their budding perch slow swinging,
Till the moon with silver sail glides through the afterglow.
Here, crimeless prisoners caged, they sigh and dream for ever
Of a lonely mate in some cool grove that droops beside her brood;
They beat the cruel bars in a passionate endeavour
To hush the little voices that call in vain for food.
They dream of autumn colours, the crimson of the cherries.
The breath of heaven's glory o'er the fields of yellow corn;
They sigh for draughts delicious from juicy rowan berries,
The breath of Heaven in the air, so fresh and fair the morn.
How they rested on the wind or pierced the low clouds flying
Across the storm-swept heaven, that barred and distant sky!
Men gave a plot of grass—all earth's wide range denying—
Scarce large enough to sod them when they die.
I said: Of sight of kingcups and cowslips yellow gleaming,
No avaricious eye will envious loose its hold.
Nor will a greedy hand, where the celandine lies dreaming.
Dart hungrily to rob her of her gold.
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