Do we care, you and I,

For the song-birds winging by,

Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,

Thrill of wing of gold or green,

Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dye

Lost or found across the sky,

Midst the glory of the air;

Birds who tenderer colors wear?

What to us the free-bird's song,

Breath of passion, breath of wrong;

Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;

Breath of love and breath of strife;

Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;

Cries of doubt, and cries of death?

Shall we care when nesting-time

Brings no birds from any clime;

Not a voice or ruby wing,

Not a single nest to swing

Midst the reeds, or, higher up,

Like a dainty fairy-cup;

Not a single little friend,

All the way, as footsteps wend

Here and there through every clime,

Not a bird at any time?

Does it matter? Do we care

What the feathers women wear

Cost the world? Must all birds die?

May they never, never fly

Safely through their native air?

Slaughter meets them everywhere.

Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!

Let women pity and recoil

From traffic barbarous and grave,

And quickly strive the birds to save.