Poems (Forrest)/Little birds
For works with similar titles, see Little birds.
LITTLE BIRDS
The happiest things I think, are little birds;They pout their breasts upon a sunlit tomb,Indifferent to the squealing of the bats;Swing on a tyrant's tree, and peer intoThe shuttered windows where a woman healsHer shamed heart with a jewel or a gown.They never grow too proud to love a rose,Or dip a beak in honeysuckle hornsTo quaff the heady mead of scented flowers.Their loves are light as air, and when Night comes,Head under wing makes canopy and bed.There is no dressing up, no lying downTo stifling pillows where we hide the tearsWe dare not show by day. They dance and singBecause the wind is full of apple bloom,Because far hills are wonderfully blue,Because a pink carnation broke its sheath,Or they can see their reflex in a poolBetween the scarlet flights of dragonflies;Because the figs are ripe on twisted treesSpilling a sugary manna to the ground.
The happiest things, I think, are little birds:They fear not Life, and when Death says "'Tis time!"Make no complaint, but creep away to dieIn some small green cathedral of their own.