Margaret Widdemer
Reading edition
(Clutching a non-existent portière with one hand.)
THE SIGHING TREE
The folk of the wood called me— "There sits a golden bird Upon your mother's pear-tree—" But I never said a word. The Sleepy People whispered— "The bird is singing now." But I felt not then like leaving bed Nor listening beneath the bough. But the wronged world beat my portals— "Come out or be sore oppressed!" So I threw a stone at the grackle And my throbbing heart had rest.
