THE VALLEY OF THE MUTED SONGBIRDS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3864, 3 April 1928, Page 74

THE VALLEY OF THE MUTED SONGBIRDS.

Beyond all sorrow-singings and all silences Of those who mourn in exile And the pale stained meadows of Nirvana Where the flame of rapture dies — Beep plunged in an utter stillness, In vast windless groves That sigh not nor give incense Unto the night But hallow a listening void — Is the Valley of the Muted Songbirds. Here are the robin and the lark. Nightingale, bluebird, bobolink, 'Woodthrush, oriole, red-eyed virco, Cardinal, grosbeak, yellow-throated warbler, The wren and the jay. Silence broods. 1.. :-div they draw their beaks Into their shrunken breasts— Their eyes stir not, They build no nests. But sit in motley com r any And dream. . . . ■ Dream of the lost enchanted hillsides, White rivers spinning in the spring, Bloom-foam of the haw lanes in the spring. Estreats under the wide cool eaves Of poplars shingled jado and silver Jade and silver in the cenacr of the spring . • • What madrigals of the dawn! What delights of the drowsy noon! They swoon at remembrance of passion In the azure-dim hour of twilight . . . Their dreams are wrung with music, Strange holy chords— Whether grass or tree the habitat They hear delirious flutings of the fields. Wild intimate cravings Of the old loved symphony . . . Tiredly they draw their beaks Into their shrunken breasts, And dream. The vast windless groves sigh not ’Nor rive incense unto the night In Valley of the Muted Songbirds. —Henri Faust, in Pegasus. OLD OR YOUNG. I questioned Poetry, “ Say,” I said, “ What am I, old or young? ” “Young as the heart remains,” she smiled “ While laughter comes and song.” “Say, am I old. or. am I young?” I asked Philosophy. “ The way that women look at you Should answer that,” growled he. So when I claim, by my high blood, A life still young and jollv Women, with their indifferent looks, Reprove me for my folly. * —W. H. Davies, in Harper’s.