Littell's Living Age/Volume 169/Issue 2192/Bird Notes

poplar-trees, in golden green, Stand up the sweet May snow between — The snow of plum and pear tree bloom — And I, looking down from my little room, Call to the bird on the bough: "What cheer?" And he pipes for answer: "The spring is here."

A month goes by with its sun and rain, And a rosebud taps at my window-pane; I see in the garden down below The tall white lilies a stately row; The birds are pecking the cherries red: "Summer is sweet," the starlings said.

Again I look from my casement down; The leaves are changing to red and brown; And overhead, through a sky of gray, The swallows are flying far away. "Whither away, sweet birds?" I cry. "Autumn is come," they make reply.

Keenly, coldly, the north winds blow; Silently falls the pure white snow; Of birds and blossoms am I bereft, Brave bright robin alone is left, And he taps and chirps at my window-pane: "Take heart; the spring will return again."