Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/219

186 Twinkling bright their eyes of jet, Clapping wings in brotherhood, Twitter thus, the swallows met When the rust is on the wood.

All they say I understand, For the poet is a bird, Captive, broken-winged, and banned, Struggling still, though oft unheard.

Oh! For wings, for wings, for wings! As sings Ruckert in his song, To fly with the birds and the springs Wherever the sun shines long.