This month’s evocative avian verse comes from American author and poet, Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933). Her poem, Dusk in June is short and sweet:

Evening, and all the birds
In a chorus of shimmering sound
Are easing their hearts of joy
For miles around.

The air is blue and sweet,
The few first stars are white,
Oh let me like the birds
Sing before night.

Teasdale’s poetry, which was quite popular in its day, made liberal reference to birds, whether she was ruminating on death…

…Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone. (There Will Come Soft Rains)

…or dreaming of freedom…

I am the brown bird pining
To leave the nest and fly –
Oh, be the fresh cloud shining,
Oh, be for me the sky! (Moods)

Sara Teasdale died a suicide at the age of 48. It is said that she never expressed in life the passion so evident in her verse. However, the affinity she so clearly held for birds and nature, the magic she found in wild places, comes through in her writings as the voice of wisdom and wonder.

Oh in the deep blue night
The fountain sang alone;
It sang to the drowsy heart
Of a satyr carved in stone.

The fountain sang and sang
But the satyr never stirred–
Only the great white moon
In the empty heaven heard.

The fountain sang and sang
And on the marble rim
The milk-white peacocks slept,
Their dreams were strange and dim.

Bright dew was on the grass,
And on the ilex dew,
The dreamy milk-white birds
Were all a-glisten too.

The fountain sang and sang
The things one cannot tell,
The dreaming peacocks stirred
And the gleaming dew-drops fell. (The Fountain)