Classic Poem

A little feathered friend of mine
Has built his nest in a red rose vine,
And there for all the world to see
He flaunts his domesticity.
His brown wing is a lovely thing,
His song good for remembering.

Good for remembering! We live
In moments, sweet and fugitive,
With pain and commonplace between,
And sharp dreams of what might have been.
A thrush's song does not last long,
But love and memory are strong.

And I shall count when I am dead
The wood thrush and the roses red
Bright beads upon my rosary,
With other joys that life brought me,
For spirits well such beads may tell
Comparing jewel and flower and shell.

I have a little feathered friend
Who deigns to come to me and spend
A summer in my garden where
He finds ripe cherries. I have there
Such provender as birds prefer,
And please a feathered chorister.

Around the wide world thorn of thorn
And roses are of roses born,
And every field is mothering
The promise of another Spring,
So in their bed of roses red
Tomorrow's songs are warmed and fed.

For song has need of love. We know
The ache of life, the fear, the slow
Dull pressure of anxiety.
Life does not change for you or me.
But souls are fed on beauty's bread,
And are, at moments, comforted.

The wood thrush in the red rose vine
Is beauty's seal and countersign.
Beauty endures. Her moments come
Fullthroated, when the heart is dumb.
Flower and song do not last long,
But love and memory are strong.