THE SONG SPARROW

There is a bird I know so well,
  It seems as if he must have sung
  Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell
  The name of even the smallest bird,
  His gentle, joyful song I heard. 
Now see if you can tell, my dear,
What bird it is, that every year,
Sings “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”

He comes in March, when winds are strong,
  And snow returns to hide the earth;
  But still he warms his head with mirth,
And waits for May.  He lingers long
  While flowers fade, and every day
  Repeats his sweet, contented lay;
As if to say we need not fear
The season’s change, if love is here,
With “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”

He does not wear a Joseph’s coat
  Of many colors, smart and gay;
  His suit is Quaker brown and gray,
With darker patches at his throat. 
  And yet of all the well-dressed throng,
  Not one can sing so brave a song. 
It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing to hear
His “Sweet—­sweet—­sweet—­very merry cheer.”
                           Henry van Dyke.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember,
  The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
  Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
  Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
  Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember,
  The roses, red and white;
The violets and the lily-cups,
  Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built,
  And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,—­
  The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
  Where I was used to swing;
And thought the air must rush as fresh
  To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
  That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
  The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
  The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
  Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
  But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
  Than when I was a boy.
                         Thomas Hood.

TALKING IN THEIR SLEEP

    “You think I am dead,”
    The apple tree said,
“Because I have never a leaf to show—­
    Because I stoop,
    And my branches droop,
And the dull gray mosses over me grow! 
But I’m still alive in trunk and shoot;
    The buds of next May
    I fold away—­
But I pity the withered grass at my root.”