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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PIGEONS AT CANNON STREET, by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE Poet's Biography First Line: O ye pigeons of the station with your loveliness of hues Last Line: Lost the verdant county acres and the freedom of the blue! Subject(s): Cities; London; Pigeons; Urban Life | |||
O YE pigeons of the Station with your loveliness of hues, Some in opal tints resplendent, some in filmy fluff of blues, As ye bravely circle downward, peck the cabmen's alms, unshot, I could think you living colours falling on this dull stone plot. Here, the friends of men and horses, ye serenely find your food, Every happy mother bringing son or daughter from her brood; Rough the act and strange the tumult that can stir you from your rest, Making all the yard a rainbow with the light of wing and breast. Ye are birds in Babylon whose sires were babies in the tree; Once the bright eyes of your nation saw beneath them romp in glee Little roes that chased the fawns, and tusky boars that stabbed the dog Where the lovely leagues of azure sparkled innocent of fog. Tho' the wilderness of mortar, tho' the miles of brick and slate Dawn by dawn are seen for ever as the comrades of your fate, In the fairy-tales of pigeons, in the folksongs, in the lore, Are not green and grassy counties mingled sweetly as of yore? Surely when the windy gods come roaring from the sea and wold, Creeping closely to some elder ye will ask him tales of old— How the piping shepherd gathered all his lambs at death of light; How the fields were fat with increase; how the were-wolf snarled at night. London pigeons, many brothers, many sisters have I seen Flying woodward in the evening to their palaces of green: Tho' I closelier scan your feathers, more I love the wild surprise Of your Warwickshire relations mounting sudden to the skies. O the peaty moorland odours and the sparkling sweep of lawn! O the last thin shade of darkness melting on the lips of dawn! These are gifts of God your kindred spy and ponder from their trees While the mower's scythe is making golden haloes round his knees! 'Twixt the rows of mangold-wurzels, careful cousins I can see Strutting stately, pecking, wary, ready for the hill or tree: Ye, methinks, have lost your birthright, lost your heritage of dew, Lost the verdant county acres and the freedom of the blue! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THINGS (FOR AN INDIAN) TO DO IN NEW YORK (CITY) by SHERMAN ALEXIE THE CITY REVISITED by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET TEN OXHERDING PICTURES: ENTERING THE CITY WITH BLISS-BESTOWING HANDS by LUCILLE CLIFTON THE CITY OF THE OLESHA FRUIT by NORMAN DUBIE DISCOVERING THE PHOTOGRAPH OF LLOYD, EARL, AND PRISCILLA by LYNN EMANUEL MY DIAMOND STUD by ALICE FULTON THE COUNTRY FAITH by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE |
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