 | Poems of house and home |  |
129
THE POET'S BIRD.
“Many a little song there flutters
From my breast on sunlit wings:
In the world's wide sky it singeth—
From my heart its echo sings.”
From my breast on sunlit wings:
In the world's wide sky it singeth—
From my heart its echo sings.”
Far away it flieth, singing
Through the Mays of many Springs
(He was laid in lost Decembers):—
From all hearts its echo sings!
Through the Mays of many Springs
(He was laid in lost Decembers):—
From all hearts its echo sings!
| Poems of house and home | |