BIRDS ftND NftTURE. 



ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY. 



TO A BIRD. 



Thou singest alone on the bare wintry bough, 



As if Spring, with its leaves, were around thee now ; 



And its voice, that was heard in the laughing rill, 



And the breeze, as it whispered o'er meadow and hill. 



Still fell on thine ear, as it murmured along 



To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song. 



Sing on, though its sweetness was lost on the blast, 



And the storm has not heeded thy song as it passed ; 



Yet its music awoke, in a heart that was near, 



A thought, whose remembrance will ever prove dear ; 



Though the brook may be frozen, though silent its voice, 



And the gales through the meadows no longer rejoice, 



Still I felt, as my ear caught the glad note of glee. 



That my heart in life's winter might carol like thee. 



— Jones Very, 'The Winter Bird. 



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