The Birds

Poem by Alphonse De Lamartine Collection Poetic MeditationsPeriod 19th century

Orchestra of the Most High, bards of His praises,
They sing to summer notes of happiness;
They roam the air with wings of angels
Escaped all joyful from the gardens of the Lord.

As long as flowers last, as long as the ear one cuts
Lets fall a grain on the yellowed furrows,
As long as the harsh winter has not frozen the cup
Where their feet will rest as on the edges of their nests,

They fill the sky with music and with joy:
The young girl perfumes and greens their prison,
The child passes a hand over their silken down,
The old man feeds them at the threshold of his house.

But in the winter months, when snow and frost
Have replaced the leaf and fruit, where do they go?
Have they ceased to love? Have they ceased to live?
No one knows the secret of their distant exiles.

One finds at the foot of the tree a soiled feather,
Like a dead leaf where a gnawing worm creeps,
Which the mist of nights has yellowed and wet,
And which has no longer, alas! either perfume or color.

One sees hanging from the branch a nest filled with scales,
Whose black debris the rainy wind sways;
Poor house in mourning and old stretch of wall
That the little ones, yesterday, rejoiced with cries.

O my charming birds, you so joyful to hatch!
Is life then a trap where the good God takes you?
Alas! it is like us. And we still sing!
How cruel God would be, if He were not so great!

Alphonse de Lamartine

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