St Francis II

I learnt the language of the birds,
A new St Francis I would be;
But, when I understood their words,
The birds were preaching unto me.

Victor James Daley

Victor James Daley, born on 5 September 1858, was an Australian poet noted for his lyrical works. Daley’s publications, including his collection of poems

Victor James Daley

The Call Of The City

Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

Neæras Wreath

Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

His Soul

Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

The River Maiden

Victor James Daley, Simple Poetry

English

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The Sermon Of St. Francis

Up soared the lark into the air,
A shaft of song, a winged prayer,
As if a soul, released from pain,
Were flying back to heaven again.

St. Francis heard; it was to him
An emblem of the Seraphim;
The upward motion of the fire,
The light, the heat, the heart's desire.

Around Assisi's convent gate
The birds, God's poor who cannot wait,
From moor and mere and darksome wood
Came flocking for their dole of food.

"O brother birds," St. Francis said,
"Ye come to me and ask for bread,
But not with bread alone to-day
Shall ye be fed and sent away.

"Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds,
With manna of celestial words;
Not mine, though mine they seem to be,
Not mine, though they be spoken through me.

"O, doubly are ye bound to p...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

St. Francis of Assisi

    Would I might wake St. Francis in you all,
    Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour,
    Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;
    Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men,
    Come, let us chant the canticle again
    Of mother earth and the enduring sun.
    God make each soul the lonely leper's slave;
    God make us saints, and brave.

Vachel Lindsay

Birds

When our two souls have left this mortal clay
And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost -
Look for me first in that Elysian glade
Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.

What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,
That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!
For in that month of May when leaves are young,
Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.

And when the spring has gone and they are dumb,
Is it not fine to watch them at their play:
Is it not fine to see a bird that tries
To stand upon the end of every spray?

See how they tilt their pretty heads aside:
When women make that move they always please.
What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls
That Nature's love has ruined - and the trees.

Oft have I se...

William Henry Davies

Birds Of Passage.

FLIGHT THE FIRST

. . come i gru van cantando lor lai,
Facendo in aer di se lunga riga. -- DANTE


BIRDS OF PASSAGE

Black shadows fall
From the lindens tall,
That lift aloft their massive wall
    Against the southern sky;

And from the realms
Of the shadowy elms
A tide-like darkness overwhelms
    The fields that round us lie.

But the night is fair,
And everywhere
A warm, soft vapor fills the air,
    And distant sounds seem near,

And above, in the light
Of the star-lit night,
Swift birds of passage wing their flight
    Through the dewy atmosphere.

I hear the beat
Of their pinions fleet,
As from the land of snow and sleet
    They seek a southern lea.

I hear the cry

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Par Avium.

Two little birds were sitting on a stone,
One flew away and then there was one,
T other flew away and then there was none,
So the poor stone was left all alone.

One of the little birds back again flew,
In came t other and then there were two;
Says one bird to t other, How do you do?
Very well, I thank you; pray how do you?

Fama est par avium venisse insistere saxo,
Quarum primâ abeunte superstitit inde secunda:
Illa autem fugiens jam vix vestigia liquit,
Et saxum mrens in campo luget inani.

Ecce autem rediens avium comparuit una,
Altera non segnis sociam complectitur almam:
Arreptâque manu, Quid agis dulcissima rerum?
Suaviter ut nunc est, et jam cupio omnia quæ vis.

Jacob Bigelow

The Swallows.

I asked the first stray swallow of the spring,
"Where hast thou been through all the winter drear?
Beneath what distant skies did'st fold thy wing,
    Since thou wast with us here,
When Autumn's withered leaves foretold the passing year?"

And it replied, "Whither has Fancy led
The plumy thoughts that circle through thy brain?
Like birds about some mountain's lofty head,
    Singing a sweet refrain:
There, without bound, I've been, and must return again."

Charles Sangster