CHANTECLER
[In a sort of groan of excessive tenderness.] Coa—­

THE BLACKBIRD
That, if you please, is ecstasy!

CHANTECLER
Thy gold is of all gold alone beneficent!  I worship thee!

THE PIGEON
[Under breath.] To whom is he talking?

THE BLACKBIRD
[Sneering.] To the sun, sonny, the sun!

CHANTECLER
  O thou that driest the tears of the meanest among weeds
  And dost of a dead flower make a living butterfly—­
  Thy miracle, wherever almond-trees
  Shower down the wind their scented shreds,
  Dead petals dancing in a living swarm—­
  I worship thee, O Sun! whose ample light,
  Blessing every forehead, ripening every fruit,
  Entering every flower and every hovel,
  Pours itself forth and yet is never less,
  Still spending and unspent—­like mother’s love!

  I sing of thee, and will be thy high priest,
  Who disdainest not to glass thy shining face
  In the humble basin of blue suds,
  Or see the lightning of thy last farewell
  Reflected in an humble cottage pane!

THE BLACKBIRD [Thrusting out his head.] Can’t call it off now, boys, he’s started on an ode!

THE TURKEY [Watching CHANTECLER as by a series of stately hops he comes down a pile of hay.] Here he comes, prouder than—­

A HEN [Stopping in front of a small tin cone.] See there!  The new-fangled drinking-trough! [She drinks.] Handy!

THE BLACKBIRD
Prouder than a drum major chanting as he marches: 
  “My country, ’tis of thee!”

CHANTECLER
[Beginning to walk about the yard.]
  Thou smilest on the—­

ALL THE HENS [Rushing to the WHITE HEN who is eating something.] What’s she eating?

THE WHITE HEN
Corn.  Nothing but corn.

CHANTECLER
  Thou smilest on the sunflower craning after thee,
  And burnishest my brother of the vane,
  And softly sifting through the linden-trees
  Strewest the ground with dappled gold,
  So fine there’s no more walking where it lies.

  Through thee the earthen pot is an enamelled urn,
  The clout hung out to dry a noble banner,
  The hay-rick by thy favour boasts a golden cape,
  And the rick’s little sister, the thatched hive,
  Wears, by thy grace, a hood of gold!

  Glory to thee in the vineyards!  Glory to thee in the fields! 
  Glory among the grass and on the roofs,
  In eyes of lizards and on wings of swans,—­
  Artist who making splendid the great things
  Forgets not to make exquisite the small!

  ’Tis thou that, cutting out a silhouette,
  To all thou beamest on dost fasten this dark twin,
  Doubling the number of delightful shapes,
  Appointing to each thing its shadow,
  More charming often than itself.

  I praise thee, Sun!  Thou sheddest roses on the air,
  Diamonds on the stream, enchantment on the hill;
  A poor dull tree thou takest and turnest to green rapture,
  O Sun, without whose golden magic—­things
  Would be no more than what they are!