Yes, 'twixt granite and mortar
Many songs, long or shorter,
Are imprisoned in the wall;
And when red leaves shall fall,—
Coming home, all in herds,
From the air to the earth,—
When I have my heart's desire,
And we sit by the hearth
In the glow of the fire,
You and I, John of Birds,
We shall hear as they call
From the gray granite wall;
You shall name one and all.
There's the crow's caw-cawing
From the pine-tree's hight,
And the cat-bird's sawing,
The hissing of the adder
That climbed the rock ladder,
And the song of Bob White;
The robin's loud clatter,
The chipmunk's chatter,
And the mellow-voiced bell
That the cuckoo strikes well;
Yes, betwixt the stones and in
There is built a merry din.
But not all bright and gay
Are the songs we shall hear;
For as day turns to gray
Comes a voice low and clear—
Whippoorwill sounds his wail
Over hill, over dale,
Till the soul fills with fright.
