A LOWLY PARABLE
At 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.
