Witter Bynner

From “Presences”

AN arrow, feathery, alive,

He darts and sings;

Then with a sudden skimming dive

Of striped wings

He finds a pine and, debonair,

Makes with his mate

All birds that ever rested there

Articulate.

The whisper of a multitude

Of happy wings

Is round him, a returning brood,

Each time he sings.

Though heaven be not for them or him

Yet he is wise,

And daily tiptoes on the rim

Of paradise.