  A little picture haunts me; It comes and comes again; It is a tiny bird's-nest, All ragged from the rain. It clings within a birch-tree Upon the moorland's edge, Between the barren branches, Above the swaying sedge. The sky is gray behind it, And when the north winds blow, The birch-tree bends and shivers, And tosses to and fro. I wonder, does it haunt them, The birds that flew away? And will they come to seek it, Some sunny summer day? I wonder, does some redbreast Upon an orange-bough, Still picture it as plainly As I can see it now? Ah me! I would forget it, Yet still, with sense of pain, I see this little bird's-nest Within the driving rain. |
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