Only a bird! and a vagrant boy
Fits a pebble with boyish skill
Into the folds of a supple sling.
“Watch me hit him. I can, an’ I will.”
Whirr! and a silence chill and sad
Falls like a pall on the vibrant air,
From a birchen tree, whence a shower of song
Has fallen in ripples everywhere.

Only a bird! and the tiny throat
With quaver and trill and whistle of flute
Bruised and bleeding and silent lies
There at his feet. Its chords are mute.
And the boy with a loud and boisterous laugh,
Proud of his prowess and brutal skill,
Throws it aside with a careless toss.
“Only a bird! it was made to kill.”

Only a bird! yet far away
Little ones clamor and cry for food—
Clamor and cry, and the chill of night
Settles over the orphan brood.
Weaker and fainter the moaning call
For a brooding breast that shall never come.
Morning breaks o’er a lonely nest,
Songless and lifeless; mute and dumb.
—Mary Morrison.