THE BLUE BIRD.


 


LISTEN a moment, I pray you!


What was that sound I heard?


Wind in the budding branches,


The ripple of brooks, or a bird?


Hear it again, above us,


And see a flutter of wings!


The blue bird knows it is April,


And soars to the sun, and sings.


Never the song of the robin


Could make my heart so glad;


When I hear the blue bird singing


In spring, I forget to be sad.


Never was sweeter music—


Sunshine turned into song,


To set us dreaming of summer,


When the days and the dreams are long.


Winged lute, that we call a blue bird,


You blend in a silver strain


The sound of the laughing waters,


The patter of spring's sweet rain,


The voice of the winds, the sun-shine,


And fragrance of blossoming things.


Ah! You are a poem of April


That God endowed with wings.


 


 


Men E. Rexford