His feathers, ruffled by chill sea breeze,
And snowdrifts lingered under April skies.
As, pausing, o’er the lowly flowers I bent,
I thought of lives thus lowly, clogged and pent,
Which yet find room,
Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,
To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day,
And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.