 | The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
I
Within our summer hermitageI have an aviary,—
'T is but a little, rustic cage,
That holds a golden-winged Canary,
A bird with no companion of his kind.
But when the warm south-wind
Blows, from rathe meadows, over
The honey-scented clover,
373
The voices of the bobolink and thrush,
The robin's joyous gush,
The bluebird's warble, and the tunes of all
Glad matin songsters in the fields anear.
Then, as the blithe responses vary,
And rise anew and fall,
In every hush
He answers them again,
With his own wild, reliant strain,
As if he breathed the air of sweet Canary.
| The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |