Under the eaves, out of the wet, You nest within my reach; You never sing for me and yet You have a golden speech. You sit and quirk a rapid tail, Wrinkle a ragged crest, Then pirouette from tree to rail And vault from rail to nest. And when in frequent, witty fright You grayly slip and fade, And when at hand you re-alight Demure and unafraid, And when you bring your brood its fill Of iridescent wings And green legs dewy in your bill, Your silence is what sings. Not of a feather that enjoys To prate or praise or preach, O Phœbe, with your lack of noise, What eloquence you teach! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT KENNEBUNKPORT by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE ART OF POETRY; TO CHARLES MORICE by PAUL VERLAINE EPITHALAMION MADE AT LINCOLNES INNE by JOHN DONNE TO A PORTRAIT by ARTHUR WILLIAM SYMONS EPITHALAMIUM by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |