It is evening in Maine, and where blueberries grow
I hear a sweet yellow-throat singing.
“We greet you, we greet you!” he says to the sky,
Where the rose and the lavender mingle;
“We greet you, we greet you!” he calls, as the birds
Flit high or flit low in the dingle.
“Now where is that nest, little yellow-throat? Say!”
I ask as I listen and wonder;
“O, witchery, witchery,” comes the reply,
“I’m hid in the bushes or under.”