Foliage: Various Poems






SWEET BIRDS, I COME

     The bird that now
       On bush and tree,
     Near leaves so green
       Looks down to see
     Flowers looking up—
       He either sings
     In ecstasy
       Or claps his wings.

     Why should I slave
       For finer dress
     Or ornaments;
       Will flowers smile less
     For rags than silk?
       Are birds less dumb

       Sweet birds, I come.




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