Alabama, 19 15. 13 



$ 



TO A REDBIRD IN FEBRUARY 



THOU flamelet from the fire of spring, 

 Lit sudden on an ashen tree, 

 The year has but begun to be! 

 Where didst thou learn that limpid thing 

 Thou singest ere thy fellows sing — 

 Clear crystal notes that spill and drench thee, 

 Yet cannot quench thee? 



Prophet are thou, or troubadour? 

 Doth a dead April's memory 

 Waken this perfect minstrelsy, 

 Or vision of a lovelv flower 

 In some predestined, imminent hour 

 So shake and rend thy little spirit 

 Thou canst not bear it? 



Ah . . . gone ! but still the high refrain. 

 All the gray bough with green is drest, 

 A bar of amber breaks the west, 

 A fragrance filters through the rain. 

 That which was dead shall live again! 

 The last chill doubt of the earth has cherished, 

 Lo, it hath perished ! 



— Nancy Byrd Turner. 



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