Saint Francis and the Birds

The whole world responds to love, takes joy at its sight and is transformed at its touch.

When Francis preached love to the birds
They listened, fluttered, throttled up
Into the blue like a flock of words
Released for fun from his holy lips.
Then wheeled back, whirred about his head,
Pirouetted on brothers' capes.
Danced on the wing, for sheer joy played
And sang, like images took flight.
Which was the best poem Francis made,
His argument true, his tone light.

--Seamus Heaney

Song

I am sorry I have been so lax about posting for national poetry month.  Here is something from (in my opinion) one of the greatest living poets:

A rowan like a lipsticked girl.
Between the by-road and the main road
Alder trees at a wet and dripping distance
Stand off among the rushes. 

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

The Siren's Song that is Your Madness

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these broken wings and learn to fly.

All your life

you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these sunken eyes and learn to see.

All your life

you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly,

into the light of the dark, black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

take these broken wings and learn to fly.

All your life,

you were only waiting for this moment to arise,

you were only waiting for this moment to arise,

you were only waiting for this moment to arise.

The Windhover

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins