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| THE BIRD is your true Poet. I have seen him, | |
| When the snow wrapped his seeds, and not a crumb | |
| Was in his larder, perch upon a branch, | |
| And sing from his brave heart a song of trust | |
| In Providence, who feeds him though he sows not, | 5 |
| Nor gathers into barns. Whate’er his fears | |
| Or sorrows be, his spirit bears him up; | |
| Cares ne’er o’ermaster him, for ’tis his wont | |
| To stifle them with music. Out of sight | |
| He buries them in the depths of his sweet song, | 10 |
| And gives them a melodious sepulture. | |
| He teaches me philosophy,—yea, more, | |
| He leads me up to Faith. Your busy Bee | |
| No favourite is of mine. There is no music | |
| In that monotonous hum. To me it seems | 15 |
| A trumpet, which the little Pharisee | |
| Sounds, that the common people of the field | |
| May well regard his industry, and mark | |
| How he improves the sunshine. Even that song | |
| Dies with the flowers; for when the dreary days | 20 |
| Of Winter come, he folds his wing to lie | |
| In his luxurious halls, and there amidst | |
| His magazines of daintiest food, and vaults | |
| Brimming with luscious amber-coloured wine, | |
| The spiritless sluggard dreams away his hours; | 25 |
| Or if he wake, ’tis but to gorge himself | |
| In solitude, with the rich cloying fare | |
| Of an exclusive feast. His hospitality | |
| No stranger ever shares. Heedless he sees | |
| His mates of Summer droop and starve before | 30 |
| His frozen gates. He revels deep within; | |
| Without they die: yet the small misanthrope | |
| Shall guard his treasures with a surly sting! | |
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