  Oh, tiny goldfinch richly clad, Your joyousness bespeaks the morn, Whose beauty tends to make you glad, And eager just that you were born. You dart about o’er crag and moor, To us bequeath your choicest boon, Your silvery note so soft and pure, A simple, mellow twitter-tune. You ride away on rippling crest, Over hill and stony shallow, You seek the thorny thistle-pest, As it thrives on field and fallow. Your sheaves of down you garner in, And store them in your covert-mow, Away from human noise and din, To fluff your nest in bush or bough. The Hoary Alder catkin-hung, Where tinkling waters wander round, And Marigold is Music’s tongue, Here holds your cup in fork fast-bound; A leafy canopy of green, Above eggs touched by sea and sky, Which ling’ringly, you laid unseen, Save by the pale Day-moon on high. |
|
