In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, In the rose's palace, what do they tell

(When the door you bob in, airily) That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?--

Fearing the crew of chatter and song, And tell to you of the chantless tongue?

Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the sting Masked in gay dress and whirring wing?

Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff!

What need to sing? Here's music enough.

A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through!

Hi! little rover, fair travel to you.

Sweet, absurd, excited wag-- Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

HERMANN HAGEDORN

SPRING SONG

Softly at dawn a whisper stole Down from the Green House on the Hill, Enchanting many a ghostly bole And wood song with the ancient thrill.

Gossiping on the countryside, Spring and the wandering breezes say G.o.d has thrown heaven open wide And let the thrushes out to-day.

WILLIAM GRIFFITH

NIGHTINGALES

At sunset my brown nightingales Hidden and hushed all day, Ring vespers, while the color pales And fades to twilight gray: The little mellow bells they ring, The little flutes they play, Are soft as though for practising The things they want to say.

It's when the dark has floated down To hide and guard and fold, I know their throats that look so brown, Are really made of gold.

No music I have ever heard Can call as sweet as they!

I wonder if it _is_ a bird That sings within the hidden tree, Or some shy angel calling me To follow far away?

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE GOLDFINCH

Down from the sky on a sudden he drops Into the mullein and juniper tops, Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shine Flooding the meadowland, drunk with the wine Spilled from the urns of the blue, like a bold Sky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.

Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem, Vividly restless, a fluttering gem, Then with a flash of bewildering wings Dazzles away up and down, and he sings Clear as a bell at each dip as he flies Bounding along on the wave of the skies.

Sunlight and laughter, a winged desire, Motion and melody married to fire, Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind, Frailer than violets, how shall we find Words that will match him, discover a name Meet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?

How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him, Find us a wonderful music to sing with him Fine as his rapture is, free as the rollicking Song that the harlequin drops in his frolicking Dance through the summer sky, singing so merrily High in the burning blue, winging so airily?

ODELL SHEPARD

KINFOLK

O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,-- The little mother-bird all brown, Who broods above her nest on high, And with her soft, bright eyes looks down To read the secret of my heart,-- We two from all the world apart!

She dreams there in her swaying nest; I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine.

The same love stirs her feathered breast That makes my heart-throb seem divine.

We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,-- The small brown mother-bird, and I.

KATE WHITING PATCH

A MOCKING-BIRD

An arrow, feathery, alive, He darts and sings,-- Then with a sudden skimming dive Of striped wings He finds a pine and, debonair, Makes with his mate All birds that ever rested there Articulate.

The whisper of a mult.i.tude Of happy wings Is round him, a returning brood, Each time he sings.

Though heaven be not for them or him Yet he is wise, And daily tiptoes on the rim Of paradise.

WITTER BYNNER

THE CARDINAL-BIRD

Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along, A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song, My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing, Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring.

A plump little prelate, the park is his church; The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch; And there, in his rubicund livery dressed, Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest,

He preaches, with most unconventional glee, A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me, Commending the wisdom of those that display The brightest of colors when heavens are gray.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

YELLOW WARBLERS

The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies, When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes, I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,-- A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,-- Beyond my cas.e.m.e.nt had been void of song.

And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set, Live buds that warbled like a rivulet Beneath a veil of willows. Then I knew Those tiny voices, clear as drops of dew, Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue,

Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles-- Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured miles Innumerable over land and sea With wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee, They filled that dark old oak with jubilee,

Foretelling in delicious roundelays Their dainty courtships on the dipping sprays, How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate, Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate, To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate.

Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once more From lyric dawn through dreamland's open door, And there was G.o.d, Eternal Life that sings Eternal joy, brooding all mortal things, A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings.

KATHARINE LEE BATES

WITCHERY