A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow,
Believed in joy its graceful little guest
Had brought them with her, and so murmured low
In greeting,—“Little bird, a poor old tree
Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee,
For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!”
And then the pretty bird whose restless feet
Danced in and out among the blossoms there,
For very joyousness sent rippling sweet
A carol of bright laughter through the air.