SWALLOWS
Theyre not going travelling for many a day:
They don't attempt branches, they seek it in clay:
First they start holes, and then dig in hollows:
Excavate caverns to lay future swallows:
A gray, crumbling chapel, best for the landing:
Too old for man—not too old to be standing:
A home no one visits, come west or come east,
Unless he be harmless, some hermit or priest,
Who walks in a plot shaded green, an arena
Between pater noster and ave maria.
If he should lift eyes and see birds, the chance is:
He'll be but a lover: another St Francis.
SONG SPARROW
He stutters and stammers—a catch in his throat—
Chromatics falter—too many notes float—
Beginnings too eager—scales all uncertain—
Come to a cadence, too careful the curtain.
The thing that he studies—flattering, fluttering—
Might be called song could the fellow but sing
From the start of a phrase to the end of a sentence,
And not be pursued and be caught by repentance.
Who would consider such doings professional?—
The little he does, does it sound processional?—
And still, he persists and resists till he find
A channel for opening the way to his mind.
