They are swaying in the marshes,

They are swinging in the glen,

Where the cat-tails air their brushes

In the zephyrs of the fen;

In the swamp’s deserted tangle,

Where the reed-grass whets its scythes;

In the dismal, creepy quagmire,

Where the snake-gourd twists and writhes.

They are singing in arroyos,

Where the cactus mails its breast,

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.”