AFTER long peace there comes the silver chatter,
The flutter of leaf, of feather,
The thin voices of birds (lighter, far more light
Than spider upon heather);
Bright, clean, white out of the pool of night
Their cool songs scatter.
Branch-rocked to rest, eyes berry-black, unhooded
In timeless contemplation
Over the warm flecked shells she frills her breast
Beruffled teasel-fashion,
Bold, wise, unfolds over her world of nest,
Secret and wooded.
After long peace there is the call at dawning,
Multitudinous awaking,
The shrill clamor of welcome to swallow comer,
The tumble of glee-making.
And we winter-weary now know it is summer,
Now know it is morning.