. Through the year with birds and poets [poems]; . nd take me too, — Im off my vain men search with eager eyes, —No nest is found, the plover flies ! Charles C. Marble. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 179 RED-EYED VIREO Apostle of the grove across the way, Surpliced in color of the foliage,I list enchanted to thy sermon lay. As if it were the wisdom of a sage ; You see it! You know it! Do you hear me ? Do you believe it?Ah ! thou wouldst quicken memory to-day. Nor mornings chill, nor noon-tides languorousheat,Doth hold thy voice in thrall, O preacher fair;Perched on the greenest bough, thy messag
. Through the year with birds and poets [poems]; . nd take me too, — Im off my vain men search with eager eyes, —No nest is found, the plover flies ! Charles C. Marble. WITH BIRDS AND POETS 179 RED-EYED VIREO Apostle of the grove across the way, Surpliced in color of the foliage,I list enchanted to thy sermon lay. As if it were the wisdom of a sage ; You see it! You know it! Do you hear me ? Do you believe it?Ah ! thou wouldst quicken memory to-day. Nor mornings chill, nor noon-tides languorousheat,Doth hold thy voice in thrall, O preacher fair;Perched on the greenest bough, thy message sweet Thou pourest out upon the vibrant air, You see it! You know it! Do your hear me ? Do you believe it? Over and over in a swift repeat. Apostle of the grove ! Thy song divine The God of Nature gave thee note by gladder, fuller make the message thine, Rippling in beauty from thy dainty throat. You see it! You know it! Do you hear me ? Do you believe it?Would that apostleship so sweet were mine ! Jenny Terrill Ruprecht. ^ 1/ -^t^.. JULY The russet wren glides in among the vines. And adds another strand unto its nest. Then, on the neighboring trellis, pours its song. The poor mans cottage is its favorite haunt; And he is poor indeed, who to his roof Can welcome not the yearly visitor. To cheer his door with music ! The New Pastoral. — THOMAS Buchanan Read. The little bird sits in the nest and singsA shy, soft song to the morning light; And it flutters a little and prunes its song is halting and poor and the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf; But the note is prelude to sweeter the busy bill and the flutter slightAre proving the wings for a bolder flight! Preparation. — Paul Dunbar. A robin sings his song to-day ;Sings softly, by his hidden nest,A little roundelay of rest;And as the wind his dwelling swingsHe dreams his dream of unfledged , blending with his song, I hearA brooks low babble, somewhere near. A July Day.
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