Visit of the Wrens

FLYING from out the gusty west,
To seek the place where last year’s nest,
Ragged, and torn by many a rout
Of winter winds, still rocks about
The branches of the gnarled old tree
Which sweep my cottage library, —
Here on the genial southern side,
In a late gleam of sunset’s pride,
Came back my tiny, spring-tide friends,
The self-same pair of chattering wrens
That with arch eyes and restless bill
Used to frequent yon window-sill,
Winged sprites, in April’s showery glow.

’T is now twelve weary months ago
Since first I saw them; here again
They drop outside the glittering pane,
Each bearing a dried twig or leaf,
To build with labor hard, yet brief,
This season’s nest, where, blue and round,
Their fairy eggs will soon be found.
But sky and breeze and blithesome sun,
Until that little home is done,
Shall—wondering, maybe — hear and see
Such chatter, bustle, industry,
As well may stir to emulous strife
Slow currents of a languid life,
Whether in bird or man they run!

But when, in sooth, the nest complete
Swings gently in its green retreat,
And soft the mother-birdling’s breast
Doth in the cozy circlet rest,
How, back from jovial journeying,
Merry of heart, though worn of wing,
Her brown mate, proudly perched above
The limb that holds his brooding love,
His head upturned, his aspect sly,
Regards her with a cunning eye,
As one who saith, “ How well you bear
The dullness of these duties, dear;
To dwell so long on nest or tree
Would be, I know, slow death to me;
But then, you women-folk were made
For patient waiting, in — the shade! ”

So tame one little guest becomes, —
’T is the male bird, — my scattered crumbs
He takes from window-sill and lawn,
Each morning in the early dawn;
And yesterday, he dared to stand
Serenely on my out-stretched hand,
While his wee wife, with puzzled glance,
Looked from her breezy seat askance!

My pretty pensioners! ye have flown
Twice from your winter nook unknown,
To build your humble homestead here,
In the first flush of spring-tide cheer;
But ah! I wonder if again,
Flitting outside the window-pane,
When next the shrewd March winds shall blow,
Or in mild April’s showery glow,
New come from out the shimmering west,
You ’ll seek the place of this year’s nest,
Ragged and torn, by then, no doubt,
And swinging in worn shreds about
The branches of the ancient tree.

Nay, who may tell? Yet verily,
Methinks when, spring and summer passed,
Adown the long, low autumn blast,
In some dim gloaming, chill and drear,
You, with your fledgelings, disappear,
That ne’er by porch or tree or pane
Mine eyes shall greet your forms again!

What then? At least the good ye brought,
The delicate charm for eye and thought,
Survives; though death should be your doom
Before another spring flower’s bloom,
Or fairer climes should tempt your wings
To bide ’mid fragrant blossomings
On some far Southland’s golden lea,
Still may fresh spring-morns light for me
Your tiny nest, their breezes bear
Your chirping, household joyance near,
And all your quirks and tricksome ways
Bring back through many smiling days
Of future Aprils; not the less
Your simple drama shall impress
Fancy and heart, thus acted o’er
Toward each small issue, as of yore,
With sun and wind and skies of blue
To witness, wondering, all you do,
Because your happy toil and mirth
May be of fine, ideal birth;
Because each quick, impulsive note
May thrill a visionary throat,
Each flash of glancing wing and eye
Be gleams of vivid fantasy:

Since whatsoe’er of form and tone
A past reality hath known,
Most charming unto soul and sense,
But wins that subtler effluence,
That spiritual air which softly clings
About all sweet and vanished things,
Causing a by-gone joy to be
Vital as actuality,
Yet with each earthlier tint or trace
Lost in a pure, ethereal grace!