No countermand the march of days can know. As may be seen by the spots of green And yellow and red and blue. All plastered and imbrowned, Where the pleasure and strife of a painter's life Have left a mosaic ground. Bird Language O NE day in the bluest of summer weather, Sketching under a whispering oak, I heard five bobolinks laughing together Over some ornithological joke. What the fun was I couldn't discover.
Language of birds is a riddle on earth.
In forced obedience under Jason's hand. And strolling o'er the pastures and the rocks He found his life much duller than in Heaven. And as a serf obeyed his master's will. One day a new thought waked an old desire. He took to painting, with his colors seven, The sheep, the cows, the faces of the swains, All shapes and hues of forests and on plains.