A pair of bluebirds flew ahead of me in the woods along the road and alighted on separate trees. The male turned, giving me the unexpected pleasure of being able to gaze at his head with his rusty brown throat patch until his mate left for a higher perch on a wire, where he joined her at some distance. They stayed on the wire what seemed a long while, when, without warning, the male flew high into the bright sky that closely matched his shade. Blue on blue. He flew so far up he disappeared into that ethereal blue.
Nothing related to politics today except to say that I returned from my walk with the distinct feeling that America will make it through to the other side.
I can't give you a look at a real bluebird or the guarantee that all will be well in the United States after a defined period of time, but I can offer you a beautiful poem written by Emily Dickinson, who appears to have studied the habits of the bluebird.
THE BLUEBIRD
by Emily Dickinson
BEFORE you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discretion in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self!
Dickinson_Poems 2, Edited by T.W. Higginson & Mabel Loomis Todd, Book III Nature, "The Bluebird" by Emily Dickinson
http://www.ibiblio.org/ebooks/Dickinson/Dickinson_Poems2.htm#81
Monday, March 23, 2009
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Blog Archive
-
▼
2009
(89)
-
▼
March
(13)
- Feel Like Taking a Trip South?
- It'll Give You Goose Bumps
- The One That Got Away
- Bluebirds Are Back
- The Boiling Point
- Rep. Evangelidis Pushes for Storm Relief
- A Prime Performance v. Not So Prime
- Two Events Tonight
- A Not So Easy Button
- Sterling RTC to Meet March 16
- Michael Steele is RNC Chairman, not Rush Limbaugh
- Massachusetts Needs an Economist
- Big Government Spending Leads to BigGovernment Spe...
-
▼
March
(13)
3 comments:
One of my faorites from William Wordsworth
O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
How lovely, Dr. Frum. Thank you for taking the time to type William Wordsworth's beautiful poem.
Your avian friend is also a kindred spirit. Long marginalized by the invasive starling, he is unafraid to show his colors, like a Republican in Massachusetts. Could there be a truer, bluer American?
Post a Comment