Sing, little bird, for the Summer is over,
And all the young thrushes have fluttered and flown;
Here in the woodland shall April discover
The narrow brown nest with the Spring overblown;
Sing, for the sun-blazoned banner is going,
The splendor shall fall at a frostier kiss;
Close by the hearth, when the storm wind is blowing,
We shall be gladdened in thinking of this.
Sing, little bird, for the nest that you gathered
All in the flush and the pallor of Spring,
Gave the brood shelter until they were feathered,
Aye, till the mother had taught them to sing!
Winter, like Summer, returns and repasses,
April shall quicken the woodlands at last,
Here I shall find it, encircled in grasses,
Sweet with the thought of a song that is past!