CHILD’S SONG.

The first in the spring,

From its earliest day,

To God do I sing;

He feeds me alway.

I sow not, nor spin,

I toil not for food;

I love the sweet spring—

Blithe, then, is my mood.

My nest’s in the field;

I live in the sky;

I skim o’er the meads;

Through flower-beds I fly.

At times o’er the streams

Like arrow I sweep;

The swiftest of steeds

Can’t pace with me keep.

And yet I am caught

By one little grain,

And thus, for my life,

A prisoner remain.

For grain, as a snare,

With cunning is set;

One glance—and lo! there,

The bird’s in the net.