It was not in the blooming May,
It was not in the dimply spring,
But deep in the leaden gray
Of the new year's bitterest day,
That a sweet little bird that had lost her way,
A tiny feathery thing,
Lightly perched on my heart's bare spray,
(Poor little bird, she had lost her way!)
And folded her downy wing,
And chirruped and sung on my heart's bare spray,
Folding her soft wee wing.
Sitting alone and apart
Her notes rang clear and keen,
And lo! with a strange sweet start,
An exquisite shuddering smart,
Each unborn bud in my frozen heart,
Pent in its deeps unseen,
Flashed to the light, a quivering dart,
(Each yearning bud in my frozen heart,)
And thrilled into poignant green;
And now she nests in my leafy heart,
Embowered in the shadowy green.