Thistle-birds half hinted as they flew.

 April’s faith, in robin at his vespers,

 Breathes a prayer too in my lilac blooms.

 What the cloudy asters told the hillside,

 My lone rainbird in the dusk resumes.

 Bobolink is voice for apple blossom,

 Breezy, abundant, good for human joys;

 Oriole has touched the burning secret

 Poppies hide with their deliberate poise.

 Tiny twin-flowers, what are they but fancies,

 Subtler than a field-lark can express?

 Swallows make the low contented twitter

 Lying just beyond the pansies’ guess.

 Yellowbird, the hot noon’s warbler, pierces

 Sense where tiger-lilies may not pass.

 Are not crickets and all field-wise creatures

 Brahmins of the universal grass?

 Saffron butterflies and mute ephemera,

 Doubt not, have their songs too, could we hear.

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