Classic Poem

The bobolink pours forth his song,
A bright melodious flood;
The tender strain of shy wood thrush
Is heard in deepest wood.
And swaying on the topmost bough
The tiny song sparrow fills
The air with his exulting song
As he with rapture thrills.
And there are larks which pierce the sky
While downward floats their lay,
And nightingales whose plaintive tones
Are heard at close of day.

But many humbler birds there are
In brown or russet coats,
Who flutter in and out the trees
And pipe their gentle notes.
Surely the summer day would miss
Something of joy and peace,
If silenced by some greater song
Their music they should cease.
So, if no sky-descended song
Is given unto thee,
Fear not to raise thy humble voice
In all humility.
For each is part of one great whole,
Then gladly bear thy part
And sing with all the might thou hast
With melody of heart.
Lest in the splendid harmony
With which the world doth ring,
The listening Father's ear might miss
One note, which thou shouldst sing.