Birds—birds, ye are beautiful things,

With your earth-treading feet and your cloud-cleaving wings;

Where shall man wander and where shall he dwell,

Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountains, all rugged and stark;

Ye have nests in the forest, all tangled and dark;

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;

Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;

Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;

Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around

When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;

Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,

And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.