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Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 4 [April 1902]
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2017
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Where the Spanish bayonet glistens
On the steep bank’s rocky crest;
In the cañon, where the cascade
Sets its pearls in maiden-hair,
Where the hay and holly beckon
Valley sun and mountain air.
They are nesting in the elbow
Of the scrub-oak’s knotty arm,
In the gray mesh of the sage-brush,
In the wheat-fields of the farm;
In the banks along the sea beach,
In the vine above my door,
In the outstretched clumsy fingers
Of the mottled sycamore.
While the church-bell rings its discourse
They are sitting on the spires;
Song and anthem, psalm and carol
Quaver as from mystic lyres.
Everywhere they flirt and flutter,
Mate and nest in shrub and tree.
Charmed, I wander yon and hither,
While their beauties ravish me,
Till my musings sing like thrushes,
And my heart is like a nest,
Softly lined with tender fancies
Plucked from Nature’s mother-breast.
– Elizabeth Grinnell, in “Birds of Song and Story.”
On the steep bank’s rocky crest;
In the cañon, where the cascade
Sets its pearls in maiden-hair,
Where the hay and holly beckon
Valley sun and mountain air.
They are nesting in the elbow
Of the scrub-oak’s knotty arm,
In the gray mesh of the sage-brush,
In the wheat-fields of the farm;
In the banks along the sea beach,
In the vine above my door,
In the outstretched clumsy fingers
Of the mottled sycamore.
While the church-bell rings its discourse
They are sitting on the spires;
Song and anthem, psalm and carol
Quaver as from mystic lyres.
Everywhere they flirt and flutter,
Mate and nest in shrub and tree.
Charmed, I wander yon and hither,
While their beauties ravish me,
Till my musings sing like thrushes,
And my heart is like a nest,
Softly lined with tender fancies
Plucked from Nature’s mother-breast.
– Elizabeth Grinnell, in “Birds of Song and Story.”
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