Oh! a bare, brown rock
Stood up in the sea,
The waves at its feet
Dancing merrily.

A little bubble
Once came sailing by,
And thus to the rock
Did it gayly cry,--

"**! clumsy brown stone,
Quick, make way for me:
I'm the fairest thing
That floats on the sea.

"See my rainbow-robe,
See my crown of light,
My glittering form,
So airy and bright.

"O'er the waters blue,
I'm floating away,
To dance by the shore
With the foam and spray.

"Now, make way, make way;
For the waves are strong,
And their rippling feet
Bear me fast along."

But the great rock stood
Straight up in the sea:
It looked gravely down,
And said pleasantly--

"Little friend, you must
Go some other way;
For I have not stirred
this many a long day.

"Great billows have dashed,
And angry winds blown;
But my sturdy form
Is not overthrown.

"Nothing can stir me
In the air or sea;
Then, how can I move,
Little friend, for thee?"

Then the waves all laughed
In their voices sweet;
And the sea-birds looked,
From their rocky seat,

At the bubble gay,
Who angrily cried,
While its round cheek glowed
With a foolish pride,--

"You SHALL move for me;
And you shall not mock
At the words I say,
You ugly, rough rock.

"Be silent, wild birds!
While stare you so?
Stop laughing, rude waves,
And help me to go!

"For I am the queen
Of the ocean here,
And this cruel stone
Cannot make me fear."

Dashing fiercely up,
With a scornful word,
Foolish Bubble broke;
But Rock never stirred.

Then said the sea-birds,
Sitting in their nests
To the little ones
Leaning on their *******,--

"Be not like Bubble,
Headstrong, rude, and vain,
Seeking by violence
Your object to gain;

"But be like the rock,
Steadfast, true, and strong,
Yet cheerful and kind,
And firm against wrong.

"Heed, little birdlings,
And wiser you'll be
For the lesson learned
To-day by the sea."

Now the day is done,
Now the shepherd sun
Drives his white flocks from the sky;
Now the flowers rest
On their mother's breast,
Hushed by her low lullaby.

Now the glowworms glance,
Now the fireflies dance,
Under fern-boughs green and high;
And the western breeze
To the forest trees
Chants a tuneful lullaby.

Now 'mid shadows deep
Falls blessed sleep,
Like dew from the summer sky;
And the whole earth dreams,
In the moon's soft beams,
While night breathes a lullaby.

Now, birdlings, rest,
In your wind-rocked nest,
Unscared by the owl's shrill cry;
For with folded wings
Little Brier swings,
And singeth your lullaby.

On a power line,
a bird nest lies-
two chicks wait.

…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards

Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun

Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching

An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted

Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind

A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud

Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail

Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven

There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.

By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins,--but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.

He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.

And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any more, never more!'

Frogs moaning, owls cry,
Trout snaps, humming bees, birdlings—
Valley morning song.

i know about the little things
that live upon the hill
the flowers and the birdlings
and the ghosts that stand so still
i know about the stories
that you whisper in your sleep
i hear your secrets long before
the dawn begins to creep
i know that you are haunted
like a river running mad
i know about the sickly things
that make the good things bad
i know your river isn’t running smoothly,
it’s drying up inside
but i also know that i don’t care,
and still want you by my side

Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden!
Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky,
Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him,
With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout.

Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles,
Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus,
Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings.

Steward of life, he cradles birdlings in nested branches,
In chewed divots and caves hiding the squirrel and his kin,
His skin alive with deep burrowing beetles and grubs and thousands of worms,
Beneath his leafy mantle are sheltered the fox and the deer.

While branches sway and leaves fly in stormy havoc,
And beasts and creeping things are shaken and tossed,
His stoic roots, unimpressed, anchor the forest to the world,
Laboring buried and ever unmoved, in dark earthen dignity.

Here he stands, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren,
A sylvan army assembled to keep watch as the centuries drift by,
Council of elders evergreen presiding over the passage of epochs,
Terra’s first tribe bonded inseparable under countless dusks and dawns.

And there he stands, all solitary, vertical spire against a flat horizon,
No less regal for the absence of peers, but still defiant and noble,
Standing in judgement uncontested over an undiscerning globe,
Convicting all, dismissing them as airy flights ephemeral.

Little birdlings in trees,
Children flailing round branches,
  .  .  .  Wings wanting to fly.

Little birdlings in trees,
Children flailing round branches,
  .  .  .  Wings wanting to fly.