The Heron
Last night a Heron heard my prayers
Though how I hardly knew.
To God I gave my sighs and cares
(But to his pet bird, too).
The river on the rocks did rest
As my mind upward went,
While five feet up, sat still my guest
(Odd therapist, if sent!).
"Oh Lord" said I, "my heart does weep—"
(The heron shook his bill).
"Do grant my great desires deep—"
(He fluffed a feathered frill).
"Oh soothe the sorrows of my soul—"
(The Heron looked on, wide).
"And teach me patience, self-control—"
(His wings flapped on each side).
At this I stopped, and sternly spoke,
"You bird! You long-necked spy!
Have you no nest in elm or oak?
No private place to fly?"
"Have you no fish to find, or friends
With which to run the reeds?
Or will you solely stalk the ends
Of fens and fallow weeds?"
He stretched his neck, stood on one leg
And sideways looked at me,
Then settled back, and did not beg,
but held his perch, carefree.
I, all impatient, gaped at him
And wondered why he stayed,
Yet still the heron peered on, prim,
So I gave up, and prayed.
"Oh God, who tends to everyone,
This Heron seems content!
Have you no love left for your son
Whose heart is sore and spent?"
I do not speak the speech of fowl,
Or understand their cries,
But strange to say, that would-be owl
Bowed bill and closed his eyes.
That foolish, pious Heron bowed!
Could he have pitied me?
Do birds react to ranting loud
With silent sympathy?
The man who had no pinions bold
Nor nest in branch or bough,
Who had no feathers for the cold,
Nor webbed feet for the slough—
I say, that Heron pitied me,
And from his perch he prayed.
And God who made the birds— maybe,
Has still his son to aid.
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