Page:Lyrics of Life, Coates, 1909.djvu/67



first the birds—so runs the gentle story

The priest of Buddha to the people told,

With only feet to bear them o'er the mould,

Hopped to and fro, nor marked the varied glory

Of days and seasons in their wondrous passing;

Saw not the wintry branches overhead

By vernal airs revived, engarlanded,

Saw not the clouds, their forms in rivers glassing,

Dreamed not of birch-tree-haunts on lovely islands

Where sunsets tarry late, as loth to go,—

Nor ever knew what winds delicious blow

From piny mountain-peaks o'er verdurous highlands.

Now here, now there, absorbed in one endeavor—

One single aim—poor birds!—the search for food,

They looked on all which aided that as good,—

Toward any larger goal aspiring never.

But came a morning, strange and unforeboded,

When from their tiny shoulders started things,

Feathered atip, which presently were wings,—

Full irksome to the birds, and heavy-loaded.