. A year with the birds . RED-HEADED WOODPECKER For the Spirit arose, aflame with wrath, And he spake to her art selfish and mean, and quite unfit, An Indian woman to out to the trees and search for your food ! She felt herself grow small;Wings grew from her sides, and away she fiew. With a woodpeckers noisy ! Quir-r-k!For my food I must work! A. E. B. 85 The Field Sparrow You are only a voice of the fields, sweet sprite,Where we watch for your bright brown head, For the golden flush oer your breast of white,And your bill of softest red. When we venture near, you s
. A year with the birds . RED-HEADED WOODPECKER For the Spirit arose, aflame with wrath, And he spake to her art selfish and mean, and quite unfit, An Indian woman to out to the trees and search for your food ! She felt herself grow small;Wings grew from her sides, and away she fiew. With a woodpeckers noisy ! Quir-r-k!For my food I must work! A. E. B. 85 The Field Sparrow You are only a voice of the fields, sweet sprite,Where we watch for your bright brown head, For the golden flush oer your breast of white,And your bill of softest red. When we venture near, you slip away. And hide within the joyously you sing all day. And at evenings solemn hush. The summer may wane—elusivelyYou may have escaped our view,But your tender voice, alluringly,Has drawn our hearts to you. Chee-wee, chee-wee, chee-wee!Dee-dee-dee, de-de-de-de-dee! A. E. B. 86. FIELD SPARROW The Field Sparrow A bubble of music floats The slope of the hillside over;A little wandering sparrows notes; And the bloom of yarrow and clover,And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry leaf, On his ripple of song are stealing;For he is a chartered thief, The wealth of the fields revealing. One syllable, clear and soft As a raindrops silvery a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft In the midst of the merry chatterOf robin and linnet and wren and jay,— One syllable, oft repeated:He has but a word to say. And of that he will not be cheated. The singer I have not seen; But the song I arise and followThe brown hills over, the pastures green. And into the sunlit a joy that his life to mine has lent. I can feel my glad eyes he hides in his happy tent While I stand outside, and listen. 87 This way would I also sing, My dear little hillside neighbor!A tender carol of peace to bring To the sunburnt fields of laborIs better than making a loud a
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, booksubjectbirds, bookyear1916
