Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/245

212 How oft the bark with fingers light
 * In Flanders' towns medieval,

I've shaped to flutes that shepherds might
 * Have used in times primeval.

There, willow-slips the garden green
 * Enclose and keep in order,

And for the fields of flax and bean
 * They make a simple border.

On willow trunks in summer still
 * The birds delight to warble;

And when the snows their hollows fill
 * Those trunks seem Parian marble.

When axes wound the withered shoots
 * In autumn's groves decaying,

Alone the owl amid them hoots,
 * The children's hearts affraying.

But oh,—in spring when leaf and bud
 * Press forth to new expansion,

And colours bright all quarters stud,
 * The birds find back their mansion.

Nor birds alone,—for, generous trees
 * Not niggard in bestowing!

To all are free your treasuries,
 * Abundant and o'erflowing.

The child that wants a pliant twig
 * To weave a tiny basket,

The wren that wants for seat a sprig,
 * Not even have to ask it.