The Song-sparrow

Glimmers gray tho leafless thicket, There, bcside the gaixien gate, Where so Hpht irom post to picket Hops the sparrow, blithe. sedate Who, with toWlJ Mu'od ftifcgl, Comes to suu himseli aud sing. It was there, perhaps, last year, Tliat his little house he built ; f,r h s?efrt" W gWk ttö pefiri And to twitter too, and tilt The bare branches in between, With a fond, familiar míen. Once, I know, there was a hesl, Held there by the sideward thrust Of those twigs "that touch liis breast : ThtUigH lis gon now. Somo rtide guest Caughtit, ovepfUUvf m'owj - Bent the bush ;- alid Etulö it Sö. So too our own nests are tossed. Ruthlev by the wreaking wind, Wheíl, With s'tiffening winter's frost, Woods wo dwelt in, gr"!) are thidtt d Of leafrtge all, and g!nvn too cold For ivilig'd hojjes purely summer-souled. But if we, with sprii)g"days mellow Wake to woful wrecks of changej And the sparrow's ntornello Scaliítg ctill i5 oJJ ?wHt raugf. i ÜAW w8 cío Bi better thing Than, with him, still build and sing? O, mv sparrow, thou dost breed Thöught in me byOnd all telling; Shootest through me sunlight, seed, And fruitful Messing, with that welling Hippie f eestetú iA Gurglmg ever fróm thy brêast 1 And thy breathing, bree7.e-like, stira In my veins a genial flondi Such as through the sapwood spurs, SWfillS and shapes the pointed bud Of the lilac ; and besets The hollow thick with violeta; Yet I know not nny chnrm Thftt can mako tíio fleethig time Of thy sylvah, fiiint álíuin Suit itself to this roiigh rhyme : Still my ruder rythmic word Stifles thy rare straiu, dear bird. And, however thou hast wrought This wild joy on heart and brain, It is better left untaught. Take tiiou up the song again ; There is nothing sad aüo&t On the tide that swells thy throat.