The Bird That Sang in May 



By William Bromwell 



A little bird came to my window shutter 

 One lonely morning at the break of day, 



And from his little throat did sweetly utter 

 A most melodious lay. 



He had no language for his joyous passion, 

 No solemn measure nor artistic rhyme ; 



Yet no devoted minstrel ere did fashion 

 Such perfect tune and time. 



It seemed of thousand joys, a thousand stories 

 All gushing forth in one tumultuous tide ; 



A hallelujah to the morning-glories 

 That bloomed on every side. 



And with each canticle's voluptuous ending 

 He sipped a dewdrop from the dripping pane. 



Then heavenward his little bill extending 

 Broke forth in song again. 



I thought to emulate his wild emotion. 



And learn thanksgiving from his tuneful tongue. 



But human heart ne'er uttered such devotion, 

 Nor human lips such song. 



At length he fiew and left me in my sorrow, 

 Lest I should hear these tender words no more. 



And though I early waked for him each morrow 

 He came not nigh my door. 



But once again one silent summer even 

 I met him hopping in the new-mown hay ; 



But he was mute and looked not up to heaven, 

 The bird that sang in May. 



And such mclhinks are childhood's dawning pleasures ; 



They charm a moment and then fly away. 

 Through life wc sigh and seek those missing treasures. 



The birds that sing in May. 



This little lesson, then, my boy, remember. 



To seize each bright-winged l)lessing in its day, 

 .And never hope to catch in cold December 



The bird that sang in May. 



77 



