The Scavengers

It was a spring morning, and as I stirred, I did not hear the sound of my own heart, But the quick flutter of the birds Breaking loose in the cold air, wings, and discards, The scavenge of that busy dawn— The blackbird’s cry, the thrush’s trills, The gentle call of the wood pigeon, clear and soft, The warblers shaking out their calls.

Ah, the heart of nature pulses sharp, Where the sun begins to shine high, And the dew drops spark off bluebells, startled greens, Spreading like waft of dreams across the un-kissed earth.

Oh, the hungry joy of possibilities, As the world awakens, a world from within— Happy for the birds that air their songs, For every careless meander, and every thrifting dance! The pulse of spring still rings in me. —Louis MacNeice

• Louis MacNeice