W. C. Doane
How once, out of the Southland early Came a bird, For she, flying east, flying west, Had a song- A song for her work and her rest, All day long.
And full oft was her cheerful twitter First to greet My ear, in the bright summer morning; Low and sweet Was always her song, and at night I could hear Her chirruping still, in the nest. 'Twas so near I could reach with my hands the green leaves Where it lay; So, all summer, I wondered, and watched, Day by day, The glad life that it held-always glad, Rain or shine.
That song never ceased: never sad, Half divine Seemed sometimes the sweet voice to my sour Giving rest And deep peace, strange gifts for a bird On her nest.
To a home in the midst of green grass And high trees, But at last, the white night frosts of autumn Chilled the air; And one day the bird flew away singing, Who knows where?
And here, now, is the nest, on my table, Miles away- And the little birds never were frightened Out of these.
And this one went flying, a week, In and out Of first one tree, and then another, All about- As men hunt after homes for their children, In a city- Which too often they cannot find- More's the pity; But our bird could; for once on a time, Like a bird, On a blossoming branch we discovered Bits of mud, Which we knew for a brave beginning, Then a straw- And so, little by little, was builded, Without a flaw, A home fit for a queen of birds But no queen Was she, with her yellow-brown wings; You have seen A hundred far fairer, I know, Every year, But never to me, was another Half so dear; A thousand-from where it was builded; And each day, I look at its soft hair lining, And I hear The songs of those summer mornings, Sweet and clear.
Hear them still, for a life that is glad, Child's or bird's, Has an echo of song, far sweeter than Any sweet words.