  O One day in June a crimson-breasted bird Flitted from Heaven through the golden air, And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred With rapture of delight to hold her there; And finding at the same time on its breast A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow, Believed in joy its graceful little guest Had brought them with her, and so murmured low In greeting,—“Little bird, a poor old tree Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee, For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!” And then the pretty bird whose restless feet Danced in and out among the blossoms there, For very joyousness sent rippling sweet A carol of bright laughter through the air. Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high, Responsive to the quiver of her wings; As light of heart beneath the summer sky Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings, To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree, It is not I who bring the flowers to thee, |
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