BIRDS AND NATURE.

In scattered plumes the floating clouds

Went drifting down the west,

Like barks that in their haven soon

Would moor and be at rest.

The Day sank down, a monarch tired,

Upon Night’s sable breast.

The wind was all but hushed to sleep,

Yet now and then it stirred

A great tree’s top, and whispering,

Awoke a slumbering bird,

Who half aroused, but only chirped

A song of just a word.

And in the west the rosy light

Spread out a thousand arms,

Each with a torch, whose crimson flame

Stretched o’er the peaceful farms,

And o’er the yellow corn, that lay

Unconscious of all harms.

Then changed into a waste of blue

A desert tract of air,

Where no rich clouds, like Indian flowers

Bore blossoms bright and fair;

And over all, a sense of want

And something lost was there.

—Walter Thornbury.

Ere the crossbills leave the pine woods,

Ere the grosbeaks seek the ash seeds.

—Frank Bolles, “The Log-Cock.”