Under The Trees

I was reading a book
About old things,
When a flutter of wings
On the high trees
Drew me out of my room,
And as I unresisting lay
Under the green boughs
Shaded from the keen sun,
I loved the thought
That I was alive this day,
And not when starched kings
And frail queens with storm-torn looks,
With narrow brows held in low crowns
And gem-besprinkled cloaks,
And long eyes and large stare,
Lived in the gloom
Of painted room,
And passion swirled around them
Like blood fresh-shed.
And so with my unfinished book
As pillow to my head,
Unregretting the dead,
I mused away,
While the birds I love
In a commingled throng
Sang through my dreams
Their heedless song.