The Mocking-Bird

Nor did lack
Sweet music to the magic of the scene:
The little crimson-breasted Nonpareil
Was there, his tiny feet scarce bending down
The silken tendril that he lighted on
To pour his love notes; and in russet coat,
Most homely, like true genius bursting forth
In spite of adverse fortune, a full choir
Within himself, the merry Mock Bird sate,
Filling the air with melody; and at times,
IN THE RAPT FAVOR OF HIS SWEETEST SONG,
HIS QUIVERING FORM WOULD SPRING INTO THE SKY,
IN SPIRAL CIRCLES, AS IF HE WOULD CATCH
NEW POWERS FROM KINDRED WARBLERS IN THE CLOUDS
WHO WOULD BEND DOWN TO GREET HIM!
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