THE SINGING BIRD.

SINGING bird within my heart Has surely built a nest, For every morning when I rise So early from my rest, I find a song for me to sing Is waiting in my breast. One song is of the flowers bright, That nod in every breeze, Of birds that in the tree-tops dwell, Of butterflies and bees, Of fairy-haunted woodland ways, And tall, dark, swaying trees. Another song it softly croons As from a far-off land: But this a deeper meaning has, I don't quite understand, Because of all the mysteries That lie so close at hand. These sweet songs thrill me with delight— I carol them all day; I hope that cheerful singing bird Has really come to stay; But whence it came and why it's here I'm sure I cannot say.