Bird Songs

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Desolate that cry as though the world were unworthy
 . . . . . . . . . .

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It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,
    And left thee all her lovely hues; 
And, as her mother's name was Tears,
    So runs it in my blood to choose 
For haunts the lonely pools, and keep
In company with trees that weep.

Go you and, with such glorious hues,
    Live with proud peacocks in green parks; 
On lawns as smooth as shining glass,
    Let every feather show its marks; 
Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings
Before the windows of proud kings.

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;
    Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; 
I also love a quiet place
    That's green, away from all mankind; 
A lonely pool, and let a tree
Sigh with her bosom over me.

Upon this leafy bush
With thorns and roses in it,
Flutters a thing of light,
A twittering linnet.
And all the throbbing world
Of dew and sun and air
By this small parcel of life
Is made more fair;
As if each bramble-spray
And mounded gold-wreathed furze,
Harebell and little thyme,
Were only hers;
As if this beauty and grace
Did to one bird belong,
And, at a flutter of wing,
Might vanish in song.

Lark, skylark, spilling your rubbed and round
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