The Bluebird 



W. P. Alexander 



One bird I know, that haunts the blissful scene 



Where idling Spring renews her lavish wiles, 

 And stores her gold, and countless tints of green 



To come with emerald step, and gracious smiles 

 Some glad fresh morn : — but ah ! my bird before 



Her train, with full, and strong impatient wing, 

 Will bear the tidings to my very door, 



And I shall hear, deep stirred with wondering ! 



My bird has caught the gentian-hue of skies 



That over-arched those orient isles he found; 

 Has cloaked himself in such becoming guise, 



And touched his breast to musk rose teeming ground; 

 He learned the low, sweet cadence of the wind 



That touched with unseen lip the golden reed, 

 And in his warble audibly entwined 



The lingering lilt, of zephyrs on the mead. 



When March is harsh, and blustering bends the bough 



Of leafless tree, with young buds still asleep, 

 All unawares, some morning, and somehow, 



I know again my sluggish blood will leap. 

 When on my ear the old familiar strain 



Will fall, and I shall catch a flash of blue 

 And know the gates of Paradise again 



Have open swung, and let my bluebird through. 



For after him will come the myriad throng 



Of varied joys, that lead to perfect June, 

 The upland glades, and vales a-ring with song 



And meadows with a mantling bloom bestrewn, 

 But oh! the gentle warble, first to steal 



Into our ear, gives joy no other brings 

 For winter- weary every heart must feel 



A benediction, when the bluebird sings ! 



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