Carolina Chickadee

All on a misty afternoon
When Winter mimicked Spring,
I heard a silly little bird
A-practising to sing.
He tilted on a naked thorn
And teased his trembling throat;
Now piping high, now fluting low,
To try each liquid note.

I staid awhile and heard with glee
His sweet untimely tune.
"The Spring's not here, you foolish dear!
You're far — oh, far too soon!
'Tis only February now,
My stars, you'd think 'twas June!"
He scanned me with a beady eye;
I thought he fain would say:
"This is a tiny piece of Spring
That chanced to go astray.
A herald that the joyous days
Are sweetly drawing near;
'Tis time to sing the old songs o'er
To wake the woodland's ear."

A pleasant thot — that poet — bird,
That tiny, minstrel thing
Adrift upon the wintry wind,
And practising for Spring.

—Garesche