POEMS.
MY MUSE.
I quietly sit, with my work on my knee,
When a, sweet little songster comes singing to me;
I hear not her wings, but I hear a soft voice,
And my needle flies quickly; my heart cries, rejoice;
My burdens grow lighter, my spirit more free,
While this kind little songster is singing to me.
When a, sweet little songster comes singing to me;
I hear not her wings, but I hear a soft voice,
And my needle flies quickly; my heart cries, rejoice;
My burdens grow lighter, my spirit more free,
While this kind little songster is singing to me.
But who is this singer—can any one tell?
Of what hue is her plumage, and where doth she dwell?
She seems to be near, but I see not her form;
Pier notes, they are welcome in sunlight or storm;
Yet in vain do I seek her in cage or on tree;
Say, who can this warbler, this sweet warbler be?
Of what hue is her plumage, and where doth she dwell?
She seems to be near, but I see not her form;
Pier notes, they are welcome in sunlight or storm;
Yet in vain do I seek her in cage or on tree;
Say, who can this warbler, this sweet warbler be?
