Warm the white eggs till I learn his doom.’
She beateth her wings, and away, away.
“‘Ah, my sweet singer, thy days are told
(Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay)!
Thine eyes are dim, and the eggs grow cold.
O mournful morrow! O dark to-day!’
“The finch flew back to her cold, cold nest,
Feathers and moss, and a wisp of hay.
Mine is the trouble that rent her breast,
And home is silent, and love is clay.”