THE CHIPPING SPARROW

The clouds are hanging dark and low, The budding trees are still quite bare, And from the North the cold winds blow, Of spring we almost might despair. But from the branches, ashen gray, Outside my window, comes a song, A warbling Chipping Sparrow’s lay, To cold and dimness nonchalant. His music has a thrilling joy, It warms the soul, allures a smile, Its brooding doubts he does destroy, And makes it happy like a child. And now a sudden, cheering gleam Falls on him from a rift of blue, I see him in a golden dream,— I know that song alone is true. His crimson tuft a poet’s crown, His tawny breast a badge of love, And that clear sunray coming down, Our Father’s watchful eye above.