Under the eaves, out of the wet,
You nest within my reach;
You never sing for me and yet
You have a golden speech.
You sit and quirk a rapid tail,
Wrinkle a ragged crest,
Then pirouette from tree to rail
And vault from rail to nest.
And when in frequent, witty fright
You grayly slip and fade,
And when at hand you re-alight
Demure and unafraid,
And when you bring your brood its fill
Of iridescent wings
And green legs dewy in your bill,
Your silence is what sings.
Not of a feather that enjoys
To prate or praise or preach,
O Phœbe, with your lack of noise,
What eloquence you teach!
_The Bellman_ _Witter Bynner_