  By JOHN ALBEE. ’Twas morn, and o’er my little window ledge Flew many a wild bird of plumage bright; They sang sweet songs, and left the truest pledge Of love, of love and truth, by day and night. ’Twas afternoon, and through my stately door, In soberer dress, stepped the too tame birds, Calling our former themes so vain and poor, Twittering now in philosophic words. It is night now; life, love, and thought are done; What is it comes and sets my heart aglow? Of all the wise and learned tongues not one— Only the foolish songs of long ago. —The Journal of Speculative Philosophy. decorative line
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