Poems (Probyn)/Sudden death
For works with similar titles, see Sudden death.
SUDDEN DEATH.
Twit-twit-twitter, all the merry morning through— Twit-twit-twitter, from the twisted apple-tree—Little nest among the blossom, little eggs of speckled blue, Little mate, brown-breasted, brooding o'er them, one, and two, and three. Twit-twit-twitter—just a little singing bird, Just a handful of brown feathers, That had chirped through winter weathers,And a little heart that beat beneath the downy throat it stirred.
Chip-chip-chirrup, where the garden-beds are green— Just a minute's crash and terror—just the firing of a gun—She may wait and she may weary, little mate, the boughs between, For flight of his to flash across the blossom and the sun. Chip-chip-chirrup, just a blood-bedabbled breast— Just a tuft of down and feather, Clinging piteously together,And a small brown thing that never more will sing beside a nest.