Migratory Birds

I have listened for the beatOf slow wings across the sea.In their strange and dumb retreatFrom their foreign liberty.

Come the birds from northern lands,Where the Russian sleigh-bells chime,From the hungry desert sandsOf a southern clime.

Come the birds where Eastern air,Pierced by lofty minaret,Echoes far the Turkish prayerOf a God we half forget.

In my garden I have strayedThrough the warm sweet days of Spring,Bent to each small nest, delayedBy the young birds' fluttering.

To the soft, song-laden windLeant in hope and half in fear,One low perfect note to findIn the joyous tumult here.

There's no bird upon the wing,There's no fledgeling in the nest,There's no song where others singMore glorious than the rest.

Is he caged without releaseWho makes all lovely things to be?What holds the gentle bird of Peace,God's hand, or human frailty?