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.
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.
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.