30 BIKDS AND POETS 



And followed still the wandering strain, 

 So melancholy and so sweet, 



The diin-eyed violets yearned with pain. 

 'T was now a sorrow in the air, 

 Some nymph's immortalized despair 

 Haunting the woods and waterfalls; 

 And now, at long, sad intervals, 

 Sitting unseen in dusky shade, 

 His plaintive pipe some fairy played, 

 With long-drawn cadence thin and clear, — 



'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!' 



" Long-drawn and clear its closes were — 

 As if the hand of Music through 

 The sombre robe of Silence drew 

 A thread of golden gossamer; 



So pure a flute the fairy blew. 

 Like beggared princes of the wood, 

 In silver rags the birches stood ; 

 The hemlocks, lordly counselors. 

 Were dumb ; the sturdy servitors. 

 In beechen jackets patched and gray, 

 Seemed waiting spellbound all the day 

 That low, entrancing note to hear, — 

 'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!' 



" I quit the search, and sat me down 



Beside the brook, irresolute. 



And watched a little bird in suit 

 Of sober olive, soft and brown. 



Perched in the maple branches, mute ; 

 With greenish gold its vest was fringed. 

 Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged. 

 With ivory pale its wings were barred. 

 And its dark eyes were tender-starred. 

 " Dear bird," I said, "what is thy name ? " 

 And thrice the mournful answer came. 

 So faint and far, and yet so near, — 



'Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!' 



" For so I found my forest bird, — 

 The pewee of the loneliest woods. 

 Sole singer in these solitudes. 

 Which never robin's whistle stirred. 



