Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Early Blue-bird
THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD.
Blue-bird! on yon leafless tree,Dost thou carol thus to me,"Spring is coming! Spring is here?"Say'st thou so, my birdie dear?What is that, in misty shroud,Stealing from the darken'd cloud?Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering moundSettles o'er the whiten'd ground,Yet thou singest, blithe and clear,"Spring is coming! Spring is here!"
Strik'st thou not too bold a strain?Winds are piping o'er the plain;Clouds are sweeping o'er the skyWith a black and threatening eye;Urchins, by the frozen rill,Wrap their mantles closer still;Yon poor man, with doublet old,Doth he shiver at the cold?Hath he not a nose of blue?Tell me, birdling, tell me true.
Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,Rosy wreaths, and revelry:Hast thou woo'd some winged loveTo a nest in verdant grove? Sung to her of greenwood bower,Sunny skies that never lower?Lured her with thy promise fairOf a lot that knows no care?Prythee, bird, in coat of blue,Though a lover, tell her true.
Ask her if, when storms are long,She can sing a cheerful song?When the rude winds rock the tree,If she'll closer cling to thee?Then the blasts that sweep the sky,Unappall'd shall pass thee by;Though thy curtain'd chamber showSiftings of untimely snow,Warm and glad thy heart shall be,Love shall make it Spring for thee.