A crimson speck in the bright blue sky,
Do you search for the secret of heaven's deep glow?
Is not heaven within, when you carol so?
Then why, dear bird, must you soar so high?
He answers nothing, but soars and sings;
He heeds no doubtful question like this.
He only bubbles over with bliss,
And sings, and mounts on winning wings.
Harriet E. Paine: Bird Songs of New England.
HEAR THE WOODLAND LINNET.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland Linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
Sweet is the love which Nature brings:
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art:
Close up these barren leaves:
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.