Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A NEST OF YOUNG THRUSHES, by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A NEST OF YOUNG THRUSHES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dear little birds, you're ready now to fly
Last Line: From day to day.
Subject(s): Birds; Explorers; Nature; Solitude; Youth; Exploring; Discovery; Discoverers; Loneliness


DEAR little birds, you're ready now to fly,
But just a word before you say good-bye,
And flash across the stately fields of rye
To flit afar!
Sit in a line upon that wild-rose spray,
And pay attention to the things I say,
Which will not last until the dying day
And evening star!

You yonder, by that angry-looking thorn,
Clean wings and breast to-morrow. Do not scorn
The sage advice of very long years born
And thin grey hairs!
And you that perch the nearest to my face,
Please have the modesty and country grace
To check that piping song,—'tis not the place
For evening prayers.

Now, little thrushes, shall we not begin
Before the stonechat's clink so crisp and thin:
Ere larks hang o'er us with that lovely din
We heard last night?
Sit still, my pretty ones, for now's the time
To sip of wisdom ere the winter rime
Freeze summer hearts and hush the laughing chime
Once loud and bright.

Well, first of all, I knew you ere you came
To live in this my hedge. That dear old dame,
Your mother, trespassed on my lands; small blame
She's had from me!
I knew the nook she chose, and saw her beak
Fetch straw and grass, and tho' we could not speak
We were the best of friends, and very meek
She'd ever be.

And soon the tender architect, by aid
Most gladly lent by him who sweetly played
The part of lover sighing to a maid,
Built yonder nest.
Her mate and she would stand upon its side
To see if it were firm and sure to bide
The stress of wind when you were rocked inside
Beneath her breast.

Yes, it was safe. One morning when at last
The rising sun long shadows westward cast,
I left my bed, and o'er the lawnland passed
In splashing dew;
The quickset scratched me as I pushed my hand
To help me view the home so rarely planned—
Four globes of blue with dots of black I scanned,
And these were you!

Only when you are parents you will know
The patience of your mother. Time will show
By equal proof the tenderness and glow
Of love she gave!
She kept you warm the while her merry mate
Sat like a sentry on that unhinged gate,
Truer than hearts that have no strength to wait,
Be saved and save.

At last her heart stirred life within the shell,
And how her bosom fluttered who can tell,
When first she felt that all was very well,
And soon her chicks
Would chirp as birds, and stare up to the sky,
And marvel at the moon so fair and high
That sailed across their home and sank so nigh
Behind the ricks?

Then were keen huntings of the early worm
And other food to keep alive the germ
Of being in you, make your legs grow firm
And strong to hold
The ground or twig when first with infant strut
You left the thrushes' land of Lilliput,
Half-tumbling in some awkward winter rut
When over-bold.

When you were sucklings, so to speak, I knew
The tale of feathers almost of the crew
That weathered winds that swayed them as a shrew
Rocks restless child;
But then I kept my room a while, and when
I next might hear the robin and the wren
I found the babies nearly grown to men,
And somewhat wild.

And you, Miss, you it was—I know your breast—
Were sitting watching, waiting for the rest
Who, far afield, were rambling in the quest
Of sights and food:
You feared my coming, squeaked, o'erbalanced, fell
Down at my feet, and—is it fair to tell?—
Wept tears of fright, or what did just as well,
And did you good.

Your brothers laugh, but from that slight mishap
I knew you well, and in my easy cap
I set you, stroking you, upon my lap
Till calm again.
I pressed my cheek against the dainty lace
That set in ruffles round your heart's warm place,
And made you sweetheart for a moment's space,
And lost my pain.

I still am here, but you are going hence
Beyond my meadow's boundary of fence
Out into wonders looming large and dense,
Across the sedge
"To see the world." What's that? To woo, to wive,
Be vagrants some, and some be plump and thrive,
To fall in snares, be shot, be saved alive
For next year's hedge?

And I am left. My birds, there was a year
When I was gathering twigs, and, summer near,
Looked for a mate, a whitethroat mate, to cheer
My lonely days;
But she (God rest her!) came not to my lure,
For angels found her pathways that were sure
And rich with blossoms white and sweet and pure
In sunny ways.

She won a nest. And sometimes, when I yearn
For peace in peace, my slower footsteps turn
And seek the house whose cheering windows burn
Upon the hill;
And she, as wife and mother, still can reach
Me both her hands, and even gently teach
Her comely face that olden glow of peach
At memory's thrill.

And I could find no bird to share my nest;
Nowhere to lay my head, no gracious breast
To throb for me and beat beside my rest
A low calm tune.
Home is not home no baby laughter nigh,
And, Hannah, well I understand the cry,
"O Father, give me children, or I die
Now very soon."

Dear little thrushes, if you rub your eyes
And gape and stretch when I philosophize,
Unbend that burdened spray and lightly rise
Above the thorns.
Above the thorns! The thorns are far too thick,
And do not grow on only rose and quick,
But spring from life and poison as they prick,—
What dreadful yawns!

Just one thing more, one taste of mental food;
Preserve the art so little understood—
The golden art of simply being good,
As best you may,
That men, who live in gross and careless herds,
Attracted by the beauty of your words,
May learn bright lessons in the School of Birds
From day to day.





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