“Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang”
Black arms and fingers reaching to the blue,
Bleak silhouettes of former forest green.
Their choresters flown to warmer, humid climes,
Now silence reigns where summer hymns of praise
Were raised by cardinals, wrens and finches gold
Nestled in those arms’ and fingers’ strong embrace.
These “bare ruined choirs” will in the Spring leaf out and
Echo to those lovely feathered songsters once again.
These reassuring returns endure.
“It’s going to come out all right – do you know?
The sun, the birds, the grass – they know.
They get along – and we’ll get along.”