SARA E. GRAVES.
Tell me what the bluebird singsWhen from Southland up he springsInto March's frosty skiesAnd to our New England flies,Where, upon some sunny mornHear we first his note lovelorn.Now he 'mong the maple flits,Now upon a fencepost sits,Lifting wings of heaven's own blueAs he warbles, clear and true,Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,All our hearts with welcome beat.What the message full he bringsWhen in March's ear he sings?Tell me what our robins thinkWhen our April airs they drink,Following close in Bluebird's trainWith their blither, bolder strain.Sit they high on maple tallChirping loud their earnest call,Redbreasts glowing in the sun,Then across the sward they runScampering briskly, then upright,Flirt their tails and spring to flight.Or, when drops the light of dayDown the westward golden way,Robin mounts the tallest branchTouched by sunset's quivering lance;Carols forth his evening tuneBlithe as Earth were in her June.Tell me what the sparrow saysIn those first glad springtime days,When the maples yield their sweet,When Earth's waking pulses beat,When the swollen streams and rillsFrolic down the pasture hills.Winter birds and squirrels thenGrow more lively in the glen,And, when warmer airs arise,Sparrow sings her sweet surpriseFrom the lilac bushes near,Song of faith and hope and cheer.Tell me, when the longer trainUp from Southland sweeps again,Filling fields and glens and woods—Wildest, deepest solitudes—With more brilliant life and song,Golden lyre and silver tongue,Bells that ring their morning chimesWood nymphs voicing soothing rhymesStirring all the sun-filled airWith hymns of praise and love and prayer.Tell me whence their motive power,Tell me whence so rich a dower,Tell me why arebirdsso gifted;Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;Whither swells this tide of loveFlooding all the air above?Whither these enchantments tend?A brief bird life—is this its end?
Tell me what the bluebird singsWhen from Southland up he springsInto March's frosty skiesAnd to our New England flies,Where, upon some sunny mornHear we first his note lovelorn.Now he 'mong the maple flits,Now upon a fencepost sits,Lifting wings of heaven's own blueAs he warbles, clear and true,Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,All our hearts with welcome beat.What the message full he bringsWhen in March's ear he sings?Tell me what our robins thinkWhen our April airs they drink,Following close in Bluebird's trainWith their blither, bolder strain.Sit they high on maple tallChirping loud their earnest call,Redbreasts glowing in the sun,Then across the sward they runScampering briskly, then upright,Flirt their tails and spring to flight.Or, when drops the light of dayDown the westward golden way,Robin mounts the tallest branchTouched by sunset's quivering lance;Carols forth his evening tuneBlithe as Earth were in her June.Tell me what the sparrow saysIn those first glad springtime days,When the maples yield their sweet,When Earth's waking pulses beat,When the swollen streams and rillsFrolic down the pasture hills.Winter birds and squirrels thenGrow more lively in the glen,And, when warmer airs arise,Sparrow sings her sweet surpriseFrom the lilac bushes near,Song of faith and hope and cheer.Tell me, when the longer trainUp from Southland sweeps again,Filling fields and glens and woods—Wildest, deepest solitudes—With more brilliant life and song,Golden lyre and silver tongue,Bells that ring their morning chimesWood nymphs voicing soothing rhymesStirring all the sun-filled airWith hymns of praise and love and prayer.Tell me whence their motive power,Tell me whence so rich a dower,Tell me why arebirdsso gifted;Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;Whither swells this tide of loveFlooding all the air above?Whither these enchantments tend?A brief bird life—is this its end?
Tell me what the bluebird singsWhen from Southland up he springsInto March's frosty skiesAnd to our New England flies,Where, upon some sunny mornHear we first his note lovelorn.
Tell me what the bluebird sings
When from Southland up he springs
Into March's frosty skies
And to our New England flies,
Where, upon some sunny morn
Hear we first his note lovelorn.
Now he 'mong the maple flits,Now upon a fencepost sits,Lifting wings of heaven's own blueAs he warbles, clear and true,Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,All our hearts with welcome beat.
Now he 'mong the maple flits,
Now upon a fencepost sits,
Lifting wings of heaven's own blue
As he warbles, clear and true,
Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,
All our hearts with welcome beat.
What the message full he bringsWhen in March's ear he sings?Tell me what our robins thinkWhen our April airs they drink,Following close in Bluebird's trainWith their blither, bolder strain.
What the message full he brings
When in March's ear he sings?
Tell me what our robins think
When our April airs they drink,
Following close in Bluebird's train
With their blither, bolder strain.
Sit they high on maple tallChirping loud their earnest call,Redbreasts glowing in the sun,Then across the sward they runScampering briskly, then upright,Flirt their tails and spring to flight.
Sit they high on maple tall
Chirping loud their earnest call,
Redbreasts glowing in the sun,
Then across the sward they run
Scampering briskly, then upright,
Flirt their tails and spring to flight.
Or, when drops the light of dayDown the westward golden way,Robin mounts the tallest branchTouched by sunset's quivering lance;Carols forth his evening tuneBlithe as Earth were in her June.
Or, when drops the light of day
Down the westward golden way,
Robin mounts the tallest branch
Touched by sunset's quivering lance;
Carols forth his evening tune
Blithe as Earth were in her June.
Tell me what the sparrow saysIn those first glad springtime days,When the maples yield their sweet,When Earth's waking pulses beat,When the swollen streams and rillsFrolic down the pasture hills.
Tell me what the sparrow says
In those first glad springtime days,
When the maples yield their sweet,
When Earth's waking pulses beat,
When the swollen streams and rills
Frolic down the pasture hills.
Winter birds and squirrels thenGrow more lively in the glen,And, when warmer airs arise,Sparrow sings her sweet surpriseFrom the lilac bushes near,Song of faith and hope and cheer.
Winter birds and squirrels then
Grow more lively in the glen,
And, when warmer airs arise,
Sparrow sings her sweet surprise
From the lilac bushes near,
Song of faith and hope and cheer.
Tell me, when the longer trainUp from Southland sweeps again,Filling fields and glens and woods—Wildest, deepest solitudes—With more brilliant life and song,Golden lyre and silver tongue,Bells that ring their morning chimesWood nymphs voicing soothing rhymesStirring all the sun-filled airWith hymns of praise and love and prayer.
Tell me, when the longer train
Up from Southland sweeps again,
Filling fields and glens and woods—
Wildest, deepest solitudes—
With more brilliant life and song,
Golden lyre and silver tongue,
Bells that ring their morning chimes
Wood nymphs voicing soothing rhymes
Stirring all the sun-filled air
With hymns of praise and love and prayer.
Tell me whence their motive power,Tell me whence so rich a dower,Tell me why arebirdsso gifted;Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;Whither swells this tide of loveFlooding all the air above?Whither these enchantments tend?A brief bird life—is this its end?
Tell me whence their motive power,
Tell me whence so rich a dower,
Tell me why arebirdsso gifted;
Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;
Whither swells this tide of love
Flooding all the air above?
Whither these enchantments tend?
A brief bird life—is this its end?