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THE RED-BIRD

RED clouds and reddest flowers,
  And now two redder wings
Swim through the rosy hours—
Red wings among the flowers—
  And now the red-bird sings.


God gives the red clouds ripples
  Of flame that seem to split
In rubies and in dripples
Of rose where rills and ripples
  The singing flame that lit.


Red clouds of sundered splendor;
  God whispered one small word,
Rich, rare, and sweet and tender . . . .
Straight in the vibrant splendor
  The word became a bird.


He flies beneath the garnet
Of clouds that flame and float,—
When summer hears the hornet
Hum round the plum turned garnet,—
Heaven’s music in his throat.
Madison Cawein [1865-1914]