BIRD-MUSIC
THE birds that fly in and out of the hearts of men
Have no names : I have seen them in late February out of the window: I do not know their names: But they come from the South lands, over the waters, bringing the Spring ; Some have been all the winter here in Kent and Sussex.
But I am a new-comer, and do not know their names.
In picture-books and in poetry ringing I have heard and seen them:
Ouzel, green wood-pecker, redstart— On the low bough of an oak tree I saw singing
Yesterday a robin redbreast, and among the bushes Blue tits and others flitting, In the winter-crumpled grass blackbirds, And a tail-flirting chaffinch . . .
In the hedges little choirs sitting.
Where do they come from, these images of light, Speckled, splashed with feathers, winging Hither and thither—little clouds of colour? They are like thoughts country-wandering Among the people till they clap their hands Singing their names as if they were children, Children of the air without families, Like the flowers, but falling out of the sky Wildly.
They are like music's visible sounds flying In the heavenly sphere, though imprisoned Seeming limitless, but intricately patterned: Each has its nest, its nodal point fastened In earth's frame-work of trees, grass and bushes Like a frail mighty cobweb hanging From the sun's splendour, its blushes Rainbow-driven and among men bright-multiplied Myriad-voicing the soul's flight.
Like the leaf-falling of winter darkness,
When the sun sinks all sounds sink to ground fluttering.
Cold, voiceless the Moon shines rising, Gathering to her the sea and sky clouding Silently in their white curls.
Whose is the music now? Zeus slumbers, Calm, all in crystal, clear, imageless, Colourless, serene, and magical man-and-birdless
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