LITMIR.BIZ

      These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,

      Did I not know, that, in the early spring,

      When wild March winds upon their errands sing,

      Thou wouldst return, bursting on this still air

      Like those same winds, when, startled from their lair,

      They hunt up violets, and free swift brooks

      From icy cares, even as thy clear looks

      Bid my heart bloom, and sing, and break all care:

      When drops with welcome rain the April day,

      My flowers shall find their April in thine eyes,

      Save there the rain in dreamy clouds doth stay,

      As loath to fall out of those happy skies;

      Yet sure, my love, thou art most like to May,

      That comes with steady sun when April dies.

      A morning of radiant lids

      O'er the dance of the earth opened wide;

      The bees chose their flowers, the snub kids

      Upon hind legs went sportive, or plied,

      Nosing, hard at the dugs to be filled;

      There was milk, honey, music to make;

      Up their branches the little birds billed;

      Chirrup, drone, bleat, and buzz ringed the lake.

      O shining in sunlight, chief

      After water and water's caress,

      Was the young bronze orange leaf,

      That clung to the trees as a tress,

      Shooting lucid tendrils to wed

      With the vine hook tree or pole,

      Like Arachne launched out on her thread.

      Then the maiden her dusky stole,

      In the span of the black-starred zone,

      Gathered up for her footing fleet.

      As one that had toil of her own

      She followed the lines of wheat

      Tripping straight through the field, green blades,

      To the groves of olive gray,

      Downy gray, golden-tinged; and to glades

      Where the pear blossom thickens the spray

      In a night, like the snow-packed storm;

      Pear, apple, almond, plum;

      Not wintry now; pushing warm.

      And she touched them with finger and thumb,

      As the vine hook closes; she smiled,

      Recounting again and again,

      Corn, wine, fruit, oil! like a child,

      With the meaning known to men.

      Do we care, you and I,

      For the song-birds winging by,

      Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,

      Thrill of wing of gold or green,

      Sapphire, crimson – gorgeous dye

      Lost or found across the sky,

      Midst the glory of the air;

      Birds who tenderer colors wear?

      What to us the free-bird's song,

      Breath of passion, breath of wrong;

      Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;

      Breath of love and breath of strife;

      Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;

      Cries of doubt, and cries of death?

      Shall we care when nesting-time

      Brings no birds from any clime;

      Not a voice or ruby wing,

      Not a single nest to swing

      Midst the reeds, or, higher up,

      Like a dainty fairy-cup;

      Not a single little friend,

      All the way, as footsteps wend

      Here and there through every clime,

      Not a bird at any time?

      Does it matter? Do we care

      What the feathers women wear

      Cost the world? Must all birds die?

      May they never, never fly

      Safely through their native air?

      Slaughter meets them everywhere.

      Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!

      Let women pity and recoil

      From traffic barbarous and grave,

      And quickly strive the birds to save.