  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 seasons’ 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. A vain and foolish thing to hear His “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.” A lofty place he does not love, But sits by choice, and well at ease, In hedges, and in little trees That stretch their slender arms above The meadow-brook; and there he sings Till all the field with pleasure rings; And so he tells in every ear, That lowly homes to heaven are near In “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.” I like the tune, I like the words; They seem so true, so free from art, So friendly, and so full of heart, That if but one of all the birds Could be my comrade everywhere, My little brother of the air, This is the one I’d choose, my dear, Because he’d bless me, every year, With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.” —Henry van Dyke. From “The Builders and Other Poems.” Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. The only way to have a friend is to be one. |
|
