Letters

If these six letters came from birds,

What gossip we would hear!

The Thrush would tell me how he sang

For twenty hours in twenty-four.

The Starling, too, would thank me for

A ribbon found down here;

To give his home a lovely line,

As well as comfort there.

And hear what Robin Redbreast says,

I read his letter now:

'My happiest hours are when my legs

are more than half-way up in snow.'

Hear what poor Hedge Sparrow writes,

To ease her troubled breast;

She says a Cuckoo lately dumped

An extra youngster in her nest.

The Cuckoo, that forgiven bird,

Writes from his Mediterranean place-

' I hope to be in England soon,

The tenth of April, by god's grace.'

And, Lord, to read the Nightingale-

'My voice,' she says, ' to my own wonder,

Rose into Heaven, all clear and strong,

To lead a chorus full of thunder!'