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John B. Colwell, bird, in English Clear filters

InspiredJohn B. Colwell

Cardinal Calling to Spring

Cardinal, cardinal Calling to spring, High from the tip of an elm Where you cling — Red is your head, and your wings, And your crest; Red like a rose Is the red of your breast; Thou art aglow Like a coal in a fire, Burning with heat Of an inward desire. What dost thou see From the limb where you swing Waiting to waken A somnolent spring?
ContemplativeJohn B. Colwell

I Went to Fish

I went to fish, at a place I know, Where the stream winds languidly to and fro; There a red-bud stood adorned in pink, And greening willows fringed the brink. The soothing 'plaint of the mourning dove Coalesced with jubilant notes from above That came from a thrasher's active throat. (Such a ribald air has the thrasher's note!) In the quiet pools I cast my lure And breathed in the perfumed air so pure, That softly fanned my careworn brow. The PAST slipped by and I lived in the NOW. Thus, ever, the NOW has a joy to give As spice for the hum-drum life we live If we but heed the proffered gift Our cares dissolve and are set adrift.
ContemplativeJohn B. Colwell

The Call of the Great Northern Loon

Have you passed a night on the shore of a lake In that northern country, afar? Where fish abound, and the jack pines lift Their sage-green plumes to the evening star? Where the lap, lap, lap, of the restless wave, And the dank, moss-scented air, With incense sweet from the balsam boughs, Ascend with your evening prayer? 'Tis there you may learn the song of the loon, The strange Great Northern Loon; And some may hear, and call it queer, This twisting, haunting, eerie tune. It sounds somewhat like a rusty hinge, Or the creak of an unoiled cart, An old fashioned, time worn, wooden pump; But it strikes a chord in my primal heart.
SadJohn B. Colwell

Retrospect

Gone are the bees, That roam the field, When summer's blooms are sweet; Bare are the trees, Whose cool shades yield Relief, from mid-day heat. Hushed are the birds We love to hear, The robin, and the lark ; Nor can these words Describe how dear Their song, as falls the dark ! Gray is the sky, And overcast; The purling brook is still; The brown leaves lie,

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