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332 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The chaffinch is God's little page.
O joyant vassalage !
" You will! You will! " he sayeth the whole day long,
In sweet monotonous song :
Poised on the window-sills of outmost leaves
He watches where the tremulous sunlight weaves
Its golden webbing over the palpitant grass,
While the summer butterfly, winged of the blue-veined snow,
Floats by on aerial tides as clear as glass ;
Like a fairy ship with its delicate sails ablow.
From the break of morn,
Herein the blackbird is God's courtier,
With gold tongue ever astir,
Piping and praising
On his beaked horn.
To do his Seigneur duty
In mellow fluency and dulcet phrasing,
In paeans of passing beauty;
As a chanting priest,
Chanting his matins in the wane o' the night,
While slow great winds of vibrant light
Sweep up the lilied East.
The dumb thing is God's guest,
And ever tired creature seeking rest;
The sheep, grown weary browsing,
The cattle, drouthy with heat,
One after one, lagging on listless feet,
Seek the green shadow of God's pleasant housing ;
While the thousand winged wights of bough and air
Do find God's palace fair 1 |
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