Classic Poem

In the very spring,
Nay, in the bluster of March, or haply before,
The bluebird comes, and, a-wing
Or alight, seems evermore
For song that is sweet and soft.
His footprints oft,
Make fretwork along the snow
When the weather is bleak ablow,
When his hardihood by cold is pinched full sore.


Then deep in the fall,
In the Indian-summer while, in the dreamy days,
When the errant songsters all
Grow slack in songful ways,
You may hear his warble still
By field or hill;
Until, with an azure rush
Of motion, music—hush!
He is off, he is mutely whelmed in the southern haze!