THE SONG OF A LITTLE BIRD.
Reading edition
hough I'm but a small bird, I may often be heard These evenings in dreary November, And my sisters and cousins Come listening by dozens, To songs they can learn and remember. No nightingale I, Yet when light's in the sky It seems to go through me and through me Till I'm overflowing With music, scarce knowing What wonder is happening to me. Oh, Spring-time is sweet, When loving birds meet, But Autumn's the season for singing, When all the dear swallows Come out from the hollows, And over the ocean are winging. We stay where we are, While they voyage afar, But the parting leaves us tender-hearted, And we sing the more clearly Of those we love dearly When scores of our friends have departed.
A. M.