A Book on Birds 



To A Goldfinch 



(Perched on a Thistle Weed above the Snow) 



Little Yellow-bird, delaying 



Bravely in a blighted land; 

 Left alone, but still obeying 



Summer's sorrowful command; 

 She hath gone, but thou art token 



Of her love, and wilt remain 

 Till, earth's icy thraldom broken, 



She shall come to us again. 



Winds may rail against thy gladness, 



Fain to drive thee far away; 

 Winter hem thee in with sadness 



Till thy gold be turned to gray; 

 All their hardship doth but make thee 



Dearer than thou wast before. 

 And as field and sky forsake thee 



We but cherish thee th' more. 



Thine unfaltering devotion, 



(Sweet remembrancer, and true!) 

 Kindleth a divine emotion 



Making us courageous too; 

 And, upon our spirits stealing, 



Cometh strength to do and dare; — 

 Little Yellow-bird revealing 



Springtime in the frozen air! 



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