To the Song Sparrow 



From morn till night you sing, unlike the Thrush 

 Remote within the woodland's shade and hush, 

 Nor like the soaring Lark whose songs outgush 



But reach us faintly like the songs in dreams. 

 Banks of the tinkling stream, the grassy dell. 

 The homely wayside nooks of field and fell — 

 Familiar places that we love so well — 



These are at once thy chosen haunts and themes. 



Of gorgeous birds in fabled happy lands. 



Or flying over palms on coral strands. 



Where tropic seas and isles the view commands. 



Let others sing; their splendors 1 despise. 

 The Eden of your songs my feet have trod; 

 The Heaven that you praise is just the sod; 

 Yet somehow 1 seem nearer to my God, 



Brown bird, with you, my Bird of Paradise! 



137 



<il.fe 



