Lovely Bird Poems For Instagram

 The nightingale has a lyre of gold;

The lark's is a clarion call,

And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute,

But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,

And we in the mad, spring weather,

We too have listened till he sang

Our hearts and lips together.

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When smoke stood up from Ludlow

And mist blew off from Teme,

And blithe afield to ploughing

Against the morning beam

I strode beside my team.

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In May-time, when the lilac-plumes

Droop from the branch their purple blooms;

When chestnuts clap their leafy hands,

And every bud with joy expands;

When in the moist, sequester'd nooks

Of woods is heard the call of brooks,

The wood-duck builds its downy nest

Secure from prowling schoolboy's quest.

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In sharp November, from afar,

From Northern river, stream, and lake,

The flocks of noble canvas-back

Their migratory journeys make;

The frosty morning finds them spread

Along the flats of Barnegat,

Where grows the Valisneria root,

The duck-grass with its russet thread;

But chief where Chesapeake receives

From Susquehanna brackish tides.

By calm Potomac and the James,

Feeding at will from morn till eve,

'Mid those aquatic pastures green,

The ribbon'd grass and bulbous root,

Where slant the reedy edges lean.

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Lovely bird poems captions for Instagram

O melancholy bird, a winter's day

Thou standest by the margin of the pool,

And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school

To Patience, which all evil can allay.

God has appointed thee the Fish thy prey;

And given thyself a lesson to the Fool

Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,

And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.

There need not schools, nor the Professor's chair,

Though these be good, true wisdom to impart;

He, who has not enough for these to spare

Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart,

And teach his soul, by brooks and rivers fair:

Nature is always wise in every part.

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A Nightingale, that all day long

Had cheer'd the village with his song,

Nor yet at eve his note suspended,

Nor yet when eventide was ended,

Began to feel, as well he might,

The keen demands of appetite;

When, looking eagerly around,

He spied far off, upon the ground,

A something shining in the dark,

And knew the glow-worm by his spark;

So stooping down from hawthorn top,

He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent,

Harangu'd him thus, right eloquent —

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'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,

That bids a blithe good-morrow;

But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark,

To the soothing song of sorrow.

Oh nightingale! What doth she ail?

And is she sad or jolly?

For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth

So like to melancholy.