 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
UP IN THE TREES.
Would we were there, in the woods together,
Two little birds in the mid-summer weather,
Out of the winter, away from sorrow,
With—think of it—never a thought of the morrow!
Up in the trees, whose branches are swinging,
They sit in the soft airs, singing, singing
A song in which youth and passion are blended,
That is always beginning, and never ended!
Two little birds in the mid-summer weather,
Out of the winter, away from sorrow,
With—think of it—never a thought of the morrow!
Up in the trees, whose branches are swinging,
They sit in the soft airs, singing, singing
A song in which youth and passion are blended,
That is always beginning, and never ended!
Look at them there now, sitting, sitting
Where owls are hooting, and bats are flitting:
One is singing, the other is sleeping,
While the Lady Moon through the leaves is peeping!
And now look at us, whose years are doubled,
We have missed so much, and have been so troubled,
Would we were there in the woods together,
Two happy birds in the mid-summer weather!
Where owls are hooting, and bats are flitting:
One is singing, the other is sleeping,
While the Lady Moon through the leaves is peeping!
And now look at us, whose years are doubled,
We have missed so much, and have been so troubled,
Would we were there in the woods together,
Two happy birds in the mid-summer weather!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |