The Night Migration

By George Sterling

It is the time of earliest spring,
  When owl and osprey nest.
The chalice of the Hyades
  Stands brimming in the West.

Far southward, under Mexico ,
  The little, singing birds
Find on the breezes from the North
  Its old, recalling words.

The finch, the linnet and the lark,
  The sparrow and the thrush,
Wake in the tropic dawn to hear
  That music on the hush.

In guava, cane and flowering tree,
  In palm and gorgeous vine,
Far off they hear the sea-wind call
  From oak and birch and pine,

Till dreams of the abandoned nest
  Trouble the songs they sing,
And tiny pangs make dear again
  Our chill, inconstant spring.

To fields where now the drifts are gaunt,
  To hedges bleak and dumb,
Below the migrant winter stars
  The singing birds shall come. 

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