Save when the wee wren flits with stealthy wing,
And cons by fits and bits her evening trill.
Hartley Coleridge.
If you sweep the house with blossomed broom in May,
You're sure to sweep the head of the house away.
Come out of doors! 'tis Spring! 'tis May!
The trees be green, the fields be gay,
The weather warm, the winter blast
With all his train of clouds is past.
Mother of blossoms! and of all
That's fair afield from Spring to Fall,
The cuckoo, over white-waved seas,
Do come to sing in thy green trees,
And butterflies, in giddy flight,
Do gleam the most by thy gay light.
W. Barnes.