It returns to the same nest. The watcher lies
Beneath spring brushwood to await its coming —
At watch so long he dreams himself becoming
Less than himself and more, the landscape’s eyes.

Though far beyond his eyes, beyond the range
Of field-glasses, he knows it breaks no bonds:
Its instinct to his knowledge corresponds,
Riding the current of the season’s change.

What is there in a small bird’s blood that learns
To plot its course by sun and stars, being drawn
Yearly toward a lost, remembered dawn?
The watcher broods on this. The bird returns.

And all its colours flash where he attends —
A deep blue, mantling rust and white —, it sings
Caged in his retina; then, on curving wings,
Veers off to vanish where the human ends.