Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/364



blither fields and braver bowers The little bird, in Spring, Quits its old tree and wintry hold, With wanton mates to sing; And yet a while that wintry home To branch and twig may cling; But wayward blast, or truant boy, May rend it soon away, And scatter to the heedless winds The toil of many a day— And where, when Winter comes, shall then The bird its poor head lay?

The moss, the down, the twisted grass, The slender wands that bound The dear warm nest, are parted now, Or scattered far around— Belike the woodman's axe hath felled The old tree to the ground! And now keen Winter's wreathing snows O'er frozen Nature lie—