Classic Poem

When the shining boughs are bare,
And a blight is in the air,
Nipping all the buds that dare
One faint flush of Spring declare;—
Little wren, little wren,
I would be like thee,
Singing unto weary men
From a winter tree.

When the Summer Songsters vie,
From the valley coverts nigh,
In full chorus, and the sky
Gazes with its kind blue eye;—
Little wren, little wren,
Still I'd be like thee,
Singing unto thoughtful men
Songs of constancy.