THE HANGBIRD'S NEST
Fashioned so fair, this small inverted dome,
With bits of moss, and grass, and strings,
And underneath the brooding wings,
Four tender, tiny, gaping things,
And near the nest the one who sings.
Ah! heart of mine, is this not truly home?
With bits of moss, and grass, and strings,
And underneath the brooding wings,
Four tender, tiny, gaping things,
And near the nest the one who sings.
Ah! heart of mine, is this not truly home?
'TIS MARCH
'Tis March and far o'er hill and dale,
With rush, and roar, the winter gale
Through bitter cold is flying;
While down beneath the frozen snow,
The fairest flowers that ever blow
In winter graves are lying.
With rush, and roar, the winter gale
Through bitter cold is flying;
While down beneath the frozen snow,
The fairest flowers that ever blow
In winter graves are lying.
No sunshine melts the icy hand,
That still in grip-like iron band
The tend'rest life is holding,
Unwarmed by any parting light,
The dreary mantle of the night
About the earth is folding.
That still in grip-like iron band
The tend'rest life is holding,
Unwarmed by any parting light,
The dreary mantle of the night
About the earth is folding.
Nay! fret thee not—the day will come
When from their far-off sunny home,
Will come the Southern breezes,
To melt away the ice and snow,
And whisper to the flowers below—
"Dread March no longer freezes."
When from their far-off sunny home,
Will come the Southern breezes,
To melt away the ice and snow,
And whisper to the flowers below—
"Dread March no longer freezes."
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