Birds--birds, ye are beautiful things,
With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;
Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,
Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?
Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;
Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;
Ye build and ye brood ’neath the cottager’s eaves,
And ye sleep on the sod ’mid the bonny green leaves.
Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;
Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;
Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.
Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around
When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;
Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.
--ELIZA COOK.