<h2><SPAN name="BIRDS" id="BIRDS"></SPAN>BIRDS.</h2>
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<p class="drop-cap">THE BIRD is little more than a
drift of the air brought into
form by plumes; the air is in
all its quills, it breathes through
its whole frame and flesh, and glows
with air in its flying, like a blown
flame; it rests upon the air, subdues it,
surpasses it, outraces it—<i>is</i> the air,
conscious of itself, conquering itself,
ruling itself.</p>
<p>Also, into the throat of the Bird is
given the voice of the air. All that in
the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in
sweetness, is knit together in its song.
As we may imagine the wild form of
the cloud closed into the perfect form
of the Bird's wings, so the wild voice
of the cloud into its ordered and commanded
voice; unwearied, rippling
through the clear heaven in its gladness,
interpreting all intense passion
through the soft spring nights, bursting
into acclaim and rapture of choir
at daybreak, or lisping and twittering
among the boughs and hedges through
heat of day, like little winds that only
make the Cowslip bells shake, and
ruffle the petals of the Wild Rose.</p>
<p>Also, upon the plumes of the Bird
are put the colors of the air; on these
the gold of the cloud, that cannot be
gathered by any covetousness; the
rubies of the clouds, the vermilion of
the cloud-bar, and the flame of the
cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud,
and its shadow, and the melted blue of
the deep wells of the sky—all these,
seized by the creating spirit, and woven
into films and threads of plume; with
wave on wave following and fading
along breast and throat and opened
wings, infinite as the dividing of the
foam and the sifting of the sea-sand;
even the white down of the cloud
seeming to flutter up between the
stronger plumes, seen, but too soft for
touch.—<span class="sc">Ruskin.</span></p>
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