JOHN BURROUGHS 



Something moves me in thy ways — 



Bird, rejoicing in thy days, 

 In thy upward hovering flight, 



In thy suit of black and white, 

 Chestnut cape and circled crown, 



In thy mate of speckled brown ; 

 Surely I may pause and think 



Of my boyhood's bobolink. 



Soaring over meadows wild — 



(Greener pastures never smiled) 

 Raining music from above — 



Full of rapture, full of love ; 

 Frolic, gay and debonaire, 



Yet not all exempt from care, 

 For thy nest is in the grass, 



And thou worriest as I pass ; 

 But nor hand nor foot of mine 



Shall do harm to thee or thine ; 

 I, musing only, pause to think 



Of my boyhood's bobolink. 



But no bobolink of mine 



Ever sang o'er mead so fine — 

 Starred with flowers of every hue, 



Gold and purple, white and blue, 

 Painted cup, anemone, 



Jacob's ladder, fleur de lis, 

 Orchid, harebell, shooting star, 



Crane's bill, lupine, seen afar, 

 Primrose, rubus, saxifrage, 



Pictured type on Nature's page — 

 These and more, here unnamed, 



In northland gardens, yet untamed, 

 Deck the fields where thou dost sing, 



Mounting up on trembling wing ; 

 Yet in wistful mood I think 



Of my boyhood's bobolink. 



On Unalaska's emerald lea, 

 On lonely isles in Bering Sea, 



