But the strawberries ripened soon;
Every brood had found its tune,
Every bird its wing;
Yet the three small sparrows left
In the stone wall's mossy cleft,
Had not learned to sing!
Every brood had found its tune,
Every bird its wing;
Yet the three small sparrows left
In the stone wall's mossy cleft,
Had not learned to sing!
Not a trill of bursting bloom,
Nodding grass or ferny plume,
From the nest ran over;
All the summer passed unsung
By three sparrows, dead, among
The rank and fragrant clover!
Nodding grass or ferny plume,
From the nest ran over;
All the summer passed unsung
By three sparrows, dead, among
The rank and fragrant clover!
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