Feathers, and moss, and a wisp of hay,
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,)
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,