Tell me what the bluebird sings

When from Southland up he springs

Into March's frosty skies

And to our New England flies,

Where, upon some sunny morn

Hear we first his note lovelorn.

Now he 'mong the maple flits,

Now upon a fencepost sits,

Lifting wings of heaven's own blue

As he warbles, clear and true,

Song so plaintive, soft and sweet,

All our hearts with welcome beat.

What the message full he brings

When in March's ear he sings?

Tell me what our robins think

When our April airs they drink,

Following close in Bluebird's train

With their blither, bolder strain.

Sit they high on maple tall

Chirping loud their earnest call,

Redbreasts glowing in the sun,

Then across the sward they run

Scampering briskly, then upright,

Flirt their tails and spring to flight.

Or, when drops the light of day

Down the westward golden way,

Robin mounts the tallest branch

Touched by sunset's quivering lance;

Carols forth his evening tune

Blithe as Earth were in her June.

Tell me what the sparrow says

In those first glad springtime days,

When the maples yield their sweet,

When Earth's waking pulses beat,

When the swollen streams and rills

Frolic down the pasture hills.

Winter birds and squirrels then

Grow more lively in the glen,

And, when warmer airs arise,

Sparrow sings her sweet surprise

From the lilac bushes near,

Song of faith and hope and cheer.

Tell me, when the longer train

Up from Southland sweeps again,

Filling fields and glens and woods—

Wildest, deepest solitudes—

With more brilliant life and song,

Golden lyre and silver tongue,

Bells that ring their morning chimes

Wood nymphs voicing soothing rhymes

Stirring all the sun-filled air

With hymns of praise and love and prayer.

Tell me whence their motive power,

Tell me whence so rich a dower,

Tell me why are birds so gifted;

Whence their imprisoned spirits drifted;

Whither swells this tide of love

Flooding all the air above?

Whither these enchantments tend?

A brief bird life—is this its end?