A LISTENING BIRD
A little bird sat on an apple-tree,
And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;
He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,
But from it there floated no silvery note.
"Not a song can I sing," sighed he, sighed he—
"Not a song can I sing," sighed he.
And he was as hoarse as hoarse could be;
He preened and he prinked, and he ruffled his throat,
But from it there floated no silvery note.
"Not a song can I sing," sighed he, sighed he—
"Not a song can I sing," sighed he.
In tremulous showers the apple-tree shed
Its pink and white blossoms on his head;
The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,
He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.
"All the others can sing," he dolefully said—
"All the others can sing," he said.
Its pink and white blossoms on his head;
The gay sun shone, and, like jubilant words,
He heard the gay song of a thousand birds.
"All the others can sing," he dolefully said—
"All the others can sing," he said.
So he sat and he drooped. But as far and wide
The music was borne on the air's warm tide,
A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,
And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.
"If I cannot sing, I can listen," he cried;
"Ho! ho! I can listen!" he cried.
The music was borne on the air's warm tide,
A sudden thought came to the sad little bird,
And he lifted his head as within him it stirred.
"If I cannot sing, I can listen," he cried;
"Ho! ho! I can listen!" he cried.
