The little bird upon the tree
Has nothing now to say to me;
He does not meet me with a song,
But, silent as I pass along,
He turns his head, as he would say,
“It is too cold to sing to-day.”
And I would say, but have no words
To talk with little bits of birds—
“If you’ll come round to-morrow morn,
When I give my young chicks their corn,