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Birds in Winter
How still the air within this forest brown;
So still, you hear the snow fall through the trees,
And on the yellow leaves beneath them strown;
And thick it falls, unwavered by the breeze,
As if the white clouds piecemeal should come down;
And mark these little birds that sit and freeze,
With half-closed eyes, and ruffled feathers, known
As them that fly not with the changing year.
O birds! had I your wings would I be here?
And yet why not? the winter has its flowers
Varied and wondrous, — crystals, stalactites,
Nor undelightful these soft fleecy showers;
And why not birds? — whom love of these invites
More than the summer with its green delights.
By William Wilberforce
Art by Lucy Grossmith
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Text and image source: Petie Barre https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=pfbid02b42QeM1M4RkcYahYxRBJQPXDoAT6kSLWRLz4j4vcGUKs7RibrYFcZc3b2fg9jLAYl&id=100032362197041&mibextid=Nif5oz
GrannyMoon's Morning Feast 