TO A WHITE-EYED VIREO.
Up there among the maple’s leaves,
One morning bright in May,
A tiny bird I chanced to spy,
And plainly heard him say:
“Sweet, who-are-you?”
“Dost call to me, in words so fair,
O little friend?” I cried;
“Or to some feathered dame up there?”
For answer he replied:
“Sweet, do you hear?”
O yes, I hear you, little bird,
All clad in leafy hue;
And I in turn, would like to ask
The question, “Who are you?”
But you might deem the question vain,
And bid me note your size;
The shading of your dainty coat;
The color of your eyes.
For there I shall my answer find.
Shall you be answered, too?
Will your wee feathered love reply,
When asked, “Sweet, who-are-you?”
—Annie Wakely Jackson.