How Birds Were Made

Above his forests bowed the Spirit, dreaming Of maize and wigwams and a tawny folk Who should rejoice with him when autumn broke Upon the woods in many-colored flame. Pale birches, maples gleaming In splendor of all gold and crimson tints, And dark-green balsams with their purple hints Of cones erect upon the stem, awoke In his deep heart, Though thought had yet no words, Beauty no name, Creative longing for a voice, a song Blither than winds or brooklet's tinkling flow, His own joy's counterpart. He breathed upon the throng Of wondering trees, and lo! Their leaves were birds.

The birds do not forget, but love to fellow The trees whose shining colonies they were; Else wherefore should the scarlet tanager Fling from the oak his proud, exultant flush Of music? Why mid yellow Sprays of the willow by her empty nest Lingers the golden warbler? Softly drest In autumn buffs and russets, chorister Sweetest of all, Angel of lonely eves, The hermit thrush Haunts the November woodland. In them bides Memory of that far time, ere eyes of men Had seen the tender fall Of shadow or the tides Of silver sunrise, when The birds were leaves.