Sermon to the Birds

A poem written by William Henry Davies.

The birds against the morning light

Are loud in song and very bright;

They dart and rise, they wheel and break,

And till the sun grows very warm

They mate and sing by brake and brake,

And all is sweetness and delight.

But later, when the sun's fierce light

Burns all the morning's dew away,

They seek the shelter of the wood,

And rest themselves, or softly play

Among the leaves, where all is good,

For coolness, shelter, and delight.

One morn Saint Francis walked alone,

The morning light was bright and cool;

He came at last to a small wood,

And entered it, as was his rule,

To rest him in the heat of noon;

For though the morning was so cool,

Now, in the fierce and burning heat,

Saint Francis felt the need of shade,

And of the soft and sweet cool air

That played beneath the greenwood's glade,

Where tall trees threw their shadows down.

So entering, he looked around,

And then upon the grass he lay,

To rest himself, for he was old,

And in the noon heat lost his way

Among the trees, and could not find

The path that led him from the wood.

And as he lay upon his back,

And with his hood his face did hide,

To shut the sun's fierce light away,

He saw, above him, a green nest,

Where a small bird with open mouth

Fed her small young, and then did hide

Her head again, to warm her brood

With loving wing and mother's breast.

Saint Francis watched her, and he smiled;

'Ah, little bird!' he said, 'that thing

That lives without a thought of care,

For God provides its every meal

From some kind hand, that never fails

To bring the food, that it may eat,

And feed its young, that else must die.

But when the summer's heat is spent,

And winter comes, with snow and frost,

And when the days are short and cold,

And food is scarce, and birds must fast,

God still will care for thee, dear bird!

And when thy little ones are cold,

He'll warm them with His own warm breast,

As thou dost warm thy little brood.'

Then, as Saint Francis lay and slept,

For he was tired, and felt at peace

With all the world, and all that lives,

The birds around him sweetly sang;

And as they sang, he dreamed a dream,

And in the dream he thought he saw

Great numbers of the birds that flew

All over the world, and each one

Sang to him as he passed along:

'God bless thee, Francis! God bless thee!

God bless thee, Francis! God bless thee!'

And as he lay, with hooded face,

The little birds did hop and sing,

And one small bird perched on his breast

And sang to him, and kissed his mouth,

And then flew up into a tree,

And sang again, and shook its wings,

And sang, and sang, and sang, and sang,

Until it seemed that all the birds

In all the world were singing too.

And when Saint Francis woke and smiled,

He said, 'Dear little bird! thou hast

Sung sweetly to me, and I know

That thou art happy, for thou dost

Sing all the day, and all the night,

And never seem'st to tire at all.

And now thou'st sung to me, dear bird!

God bless thee for thy singing sweet,

And God be with thee, little bird!'

Then with his staff he rose and walked

Out of the wood, and through the fields,

Until he came to the highway side,

And then he left the road, and passed

Across the fields, until he came

To Assisi, where he lived and died.

And all his life was spent in love,

And all his days were days of peace,

And all his nights were nights of rest,

And all his heart was full of joy.