BY LAURA SPENCER PORTOR
The great blue heron flies for the lakes,
But no one knows the path he takes.
We never know, and we never hear,
But there comes a time, at the turn of the year,
When from his wings the dew he shakes
When from his dream he turns and wakes,—
His dream of the great blue Northern lakes.
Then his foot uncurls, slow, downward drawn;
Fan-like and sleepy, his wings they yawn,
Then twitter down quiet against his sides:
And he waits and thinks, and thinks and bides.
For his dream has been long, and his waking
slow,
But this is the way you may guess and know
That he tires of the swamps, and the Southern
breeze,
And the cypress-moss, and the Southern trees.
But no one knows the path he takes.
We never know, and we never hear,
But there comes a time, at the turn of the year,
When from his wings the dew he shakes
When from his dream he turns and wakes,—
His dream of the great blue Northern lakes.
Then his foot uncurls, slow, downward drawn;
Fan-like and sleepy, his wings they yawn,
Then twitter down quiet against his sides:
And he waits and thinks, and thinks and bides.
For his dream has been long, and his waking
slow,
But this is the way you may guess and know
That he tires of the swamps, and the Southern
breeze,
And the cypress-moss, and the Southern trees.
And the North, meantime,—though you hear
no word,
You know as plainly as though you heard—
It is saying, “Is it not nearly time
For the heron to come from the Southern clime ?”
The low, bare apple boughs all wait,
And the poplars shiver and think him late;
no word,
You know as plainly as though you heard—
It is saying, “Is it not nearly time
For the heron to come from the Southern clime ?”
The low, bare apple boughs all wait,
And the poplars shiver and think him late;
483
