Classic Poem

The sunny porch is with leaf-shadows strewn,
Where in forced leisure, I myself console,
Watching the birds about the wooded knoll:
The meadow-lark from some dim woodland flown
To plaint for me its old remembered tone;
The flying sunrise of the oriole;
Flickers whose harp is in each hollow bole;
And love, like sorrow, in the gray dove's moan.
But most I prize the oft returning wren,—
Whose pleasant racket used to haunt my door,—
That now in April, comes to me again:
Audacious Midget! that, if not in sight,
Sends her small shadow flying o'er the floor,
Builds as she chatters, while I strive to write.