GEORGE KLINGLE.
Do we care, you and I,For the song-birds winging by,Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,Thrill of wing of gold or green,Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dyeLost or found across the sky,Midst the glory of the air;Birds who tenderer colors wear?What to us the free-bird's song,Breath of passion, breath of wrong;Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;Breath of love and breath of strife;Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;Cries of doubt, and cries of death?Shall we care when nesting-timeBrings no birds from any clime;Not a voice or ruby wing,Not a single nest to swingMidst the reeds, or, higher up,Like a dainty fairy-cup;Not a single little friend,All the way, as footsteps wendHere and there through every clime,Not a bird at any time?Does it matter? Do we careWhat the feathers women wearCost the world? Must all birds die?May they never, never flySafely through their native air?Slaughter meets them everywhere.Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!Let women pity and recoilFrom traffic barbarous and grave,And quickly strive the birds to save.
Do we care, you and I,For the song-birds winging by,Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,Thrill of wing of gold or green,Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dyeLost or found across the sky,Midst the glory of the air;Birds who tenderer colors wear?What to us the free-bird's song,Breath of passion, breath of wrong;Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;Breath of love and breath of strife;Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;Cries of doubt, and cries of death?Shall we care when nesting-timeBrings no birds from any clime;Not a voice or ruby wing,Not a single nest to swingMidst the reeds, or, higher up,Like a dainty fairy-cup;Not a single little friend,All the way, as footsteps wendHere and there through every clime,Not a bird at any time?Does it matter? Do we careWhat the feathers women wearCost the world? Must all birds die?May they never, never flySafely through their native air?Slaughter meets them everywhere.Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!Let women pity and recoilFrom traffic barbarous and grave,And quickly strive the birds to save.
Do we care, you and I,For the song-birds winging by,Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,Thrill of wing of gold or green,Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dyeLost or found across the sky,Midst the glory of the air;Birds who tenderer colors wear?
Do we care, you and I,
For the song-birds winging by,
Ruffled throat and bosom's sheen,
Thrill of wing of gold or green,
Sapphire, crimson—gorgeous dye
Lost or found across the sky,
Midst the glory of the air;
Birds who tenderer colors wear?
What to us the free-bird's song,Breath of passion, breath of wrong;Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;Breath of love and breath of strife;Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;Cries of doubt, and cries of death?
What to us the free-bird's song,
Breath of passion, breath of wrong;
Wood-heart's orchestra, her life;
Breath of love and breath of strife;
Joy's fantasies; anguish breath;
Cries of doubt, and cries of death?
Shall we care when nesting-timeBrings no birds from any clime;Not a voice or ruby wing,Not a single nest to swing
Shall we care when nesting-time
Brings no birds from any clime;
Not a voice or ruby wing,
Not a single nest to swing
Midst the reeds, or, higher up,Like a dainty fairy-cup;Not a single little friend,All the way, as footsteps wendHere and there through every clime,Not a bird at any time?
Midst the reeds, or, higher up,
Like a dainty fairy-cup;
Not a single little friend,
All the way, as footsteps wend
Here and there through every clime,
Not a bird at any time?
Does it matter? Do we careWhat the feathers women wearCost the world? Must all birds die?May they never, never flySafely through their native air?Slaughter meets them everywhere.
Does it matter? Do we care
What the feathers women wear
Cost the world? Must all birds die?
May they never, never fly
Safely through their native air?
Slaughter meets them everywhere.
Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!Let women pity and recoilFrom traffic barbarous and grave,And quickly strive the birds to save.
Scorned be the hands that touch such spoil!
Let women pity and recoil
From traffic barbarous and grave,
And quickly strive the birds to save.