A Bird's Anger

A summers morning that has but one voice;

Five hundred stooks, like golden lovers, lean

Their heads together, in their quiet way,

And but one bird sings, of a number seen.

It is a lark, that louder, louder sings,

As though but this one thought possessed his mind:

"You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch,

I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!"

And when I hear him at this daring task,

"Peace, little bird," I say, "and take some rest;

Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song,

Before it makes a coffin of your nest."